


of blood, of water

by Mononoke



Series: Brothers in Arms [1]
Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Exposition, Families of Choice, Friends to Enemies, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Introspection, Minor Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Game(s), Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Team as Family, Trust, Trust Issues, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vampires, Werewolves, Wordcount: 100.000-150.000, Work In Progress, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 17:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 96,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mononoke/pseuds/Mononoke
Summary: "Never accept, always question."Grayson refuses the Lord Chancellor's demand. His life, and the lives of those around him, are changed in ways he could never have expected.[Updates every Tuesday!]





	1. Part One: Virtus Sola Nobilitas

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this monster back in April 2015. Life being what it is, and me being the writer I am, here we are nearly three years later, and it's still not finished. But no matter how much time passed between me chipping away at it, no matter how loudly my original works called for my attention, somehow I could never quite give up on this dumb little idea.
> 
> So here I am. Posting this with the hope that putting it out into the open will somehow incentivize me to one day finish it. We'll see how that goes, I guess.
> 
> Hopefully there'll be a posting schedule? Mostly I just want to keep ahead of where I'm currently writing. If I ever catch up and need to take a break, there'll be a heads up in the chapter's notes.
> 
> Shoutout to [noisyghost](http://noisyghost.tumblr.com) on tumblr, whose [beautiful art](http://noisyghost.tumblr.com/post/144986777567/we-all-have-to-collectively-agree-that-grayson) was a catalyst that, at the time, got me back into writing this thing in a major way.
> 
> Big thanks to Gracie and Dave, the best support squad a person could ask for.

Of all the lessons Grayson learns during his time spent serving the Order, one remains most vivid in his memory.

It sits at the heart of him, one of countless pieces of wisdom passed onto him by Sebastien and the older knights, woven amongst knowledge of the creatures they face and the battle tactics essential to dispatching them. It comes to define him as much as the rest of it does when he learns it as a knight-in-training, still wet behind the ears and under Sir Perceval’s careful eye.

It’s not his first time hunting their enemy – he knows where to shoot, where to cut, and does not flinch at the sight of blood – but youth and bravado are a dangerous mix, and he is eager to prove himself. The street is clear; his shot lands true, and the beast crumples. He’s rushing forward without thinking, nothing in his head but the thrill of success, the sweet taste of having shown his mettle, proven his skill before his mentor’s eyes. So he doesn’t hear Sebastien’s warning shout; doesn’t see how still the beast lies, even for a corpse.

Doesn’t realise the danger he’s put himself in until he’s all but standing on top of the creature, its eyes and jaws open. Still alive.

There’s the rush of movement, a flash of silver, and wet warmth blooming across his front – and then the Lycan lets out a howl, guttural and furious, and slumps to the ground.

Sir Perceval – and it is Sir Perceval then, beyond any doubt – pulls his blade from the Half-Breed’s back and Grayson can only stare at the shrivelling, shrinking form of the creature, at the blood flowing from the hole in its chest.

It almost had him. That’s the closest he’s ever been to being killed, and it would’ve been his own fault.

Sebastien’s hand clasps his shoulder, shocking him out of his daze, and Grayson finds him watching with that inscrutable gaze of his. He must have spoken aloud.

“You must take care,” Sebastien tells him, voice stern but steady even as Grayson begins to quake. “Our enemy is treacherous and will press any advantage they’re given.” And the words he speaks then stick with Grayson for the rest of his days.

With the passage of time and the unending advance of technology his lesson seems ever more simple and unnecessary, but it never fails to sit in the back of his mind, a beacon of common sense and practicality that always bears repeating. It’s an adage that, like many of his mentor’s teachings, Grayson one day passes onto Isabeau.

Always check the body; always confirm the kill.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet in the laboratory, in the wake of fighting and revelations both. Every breath is thunderous in the silence. Air is dragged out of his lungs like stone from a quarry, with all the weight to match. Weighed down and weighed upon; there’s not a single part of him that doesn’t feel heavy, and of all the grief and anger and confusion it’s expectation that sits upon his shoulders most heavily.

The Lord Chancellor’s footsteps have long since echoed away.

If his aim wavers in that moment, it is due to nothing but the weight of the weapon in his hand.

Grayson sets his jaw and fires.

For a moment there is nothing but the ringing in his ears, but then the dust settles and there sprawls Alastair, squinting through confusion and the same sunbursts that mar Grayson’s vision. Chunks of rock lie haphazardly over his chest and tiny cuts graze his face from where the pillar next to his head has exploded outwards. Alastair is still for a very long time, so still that he hardly seems to breathe, and then all at once motion seizes him and he begins to cough, entire body wracked with them as he turns to stare at the ruined stonework.

“Wh … what …?”

Grayson holsters the revolver. They have precious little time.

The lab is a site of pure destruction. Broken beams and shattered equipment litter the floor and every step shifts rubble and crunches beneath his boots. There’s so much debris that he nearly walks right past that which he’s searching for, but then a spot of colour against the grey floor catches his eye and yes, there it is. Lying at the foot of the pillar where he first transformed, covered in dust from their exertions; discarded like the institution he betrayed. Alastair’s uniform.

The clothes themselves are in ruins, but then he never held any hope of salvaging them. It’s what they should hold that he’s after, and he finds it mercifully fast, landing with a solid _thunk_ when he shakes loose pieces of what was Alastair’s coat. The Blackwater vial. Grayson pockets it. A moment’s hesitation has him take up Alastair’s blade, sliding it home in its sheath before strapping it to his thigh. He has a feeling he’ll need every weapon he can get his hands on.

When he turns Alastair has made it to one knee. By the look on his face, he regrets it. Blood oozes from one corner of his mouth and the hand he isn’t using to keep himself upright is pressed tightly against the wound to his stomach. He’s hunched in on himself and even with the support looks seconds from collapsing. Grayson thinks a part of him wouldn’t be remorseful should he see it happen.

Alastair coughs. Drops of blood splatter the floor. “Gray –”

“Quiet.”

“Gray, stop –”

“I said _quiet_ ,” Grayson snarls. “Or would you rather I muzzle you?”

It’s as though a shadow falls over Alastair then, the way his eyes shutter and darken. Where Grayson had expected him to go on, to spit and snarl and keep fighting, all the fire in him goes out instead. A cheap impersonator takes his place, one with a blank expression and a dead gaze; he gives up his attempts to make it to his feet and falls back against the pillar. Grayson hardly recognises him in that moment. It’s a feeling he expects will linger.

 “Sir Galahad, what is …?”

His gaze snaps immediately towards the sound. The figure by the doorway would have worried him had he not recognised the voice, though the concern that takes him instead is an altogether different kind. For there is Nikola, clinging to the edge of the entry. He is growing paler by the second.

Whatever sparks of rage remaining in his chest sputter and die out. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Nikola.”

Grayson moves quickly to his side, hands and movement gentle as he pulls Nikola’s arm around his shoulder and helps him shuffle over to the nearest piece of untouched furniture. It’s a cabinet of some kind, covered in dust and rubble but otherwise intact, and he settles Nikola onto it with all the care in his body.

“I don’t understand,” Nikola says. His eyes keep flicking over to where Alastair lies. He looks as though he’d bolt any second if he were able so Grayson places himself deliberately between the two, goes down on one knee so he’s not looming over the poor man.

“I know it’s a lot to ask of you – too much to ask – but I need you to trust me now, if you can. I will explain all to you in time, I swear.”

With some apparent effort Nikola keeps his eyes on Grayson. He feels he can almost see the thoughts being sifted through his head, and he sits there, gives him the time he needs even as his own thoughts are urging _movement, action_. It’s needless anxiety, in the end, as only moments later Nikola swallows hard, and nods.

“Thank you, my friend.” Grayson stands, and clasps Nikola’s shoulder – gently though, so as not to aggravate his injuries. “I have one more thing to ask of you. Is there another way out of this laboratory?”

Grayson watches as once again Nikola’s mind whirls into action, no doubt coming to the same conclusion that Grayson had shortly after deciding down this mad path. They are three men in the lower levels of one of the most heavily fortified buildings in London; one of them is perhaps the most wanted in the city, moderately injured, and severely underarmed; the two remaining are hardly able to stand without assistance and in no position to defend themselves successfully. While initially his thoughts had run towards taking them out the way he came in, now that option feels far too perilous. There must be some other way.

Nikola, it seems, is already well ahead of him. He levers himself up before Grayson can move to help him, accepts the arm around his back when Grayson does catch up, and dips his head towards one of the offices.

“Quickly, across the lab.”

They make the trip as swiftly as they can, in their predicament. Nikola – as kindly as possible – shrugs him off then, and from several steps away Grayson watches him fiddle keys into the door’s lock. It bothers him, to see his friend struggle alone, but he’s becoming increasingly aware of every second they linger here; he feels better keeping one eye out for a potential enemy approach and the other on Alastair. Not that the man in question – if he’s still worthy of being called a man – looks to be much of a threat. He hasn’t moved from where he slumped earlier. Now his eyes are shut, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, and only the continued press of his hand against his abdomen eases the worry that’s started building in Grayson’s chest.

“Sir Galahad,” Nikola calls out, quietly.

He’s got the door open, and is propping himself up against the frame. Immediately Grayson goes to move but Nikola stops him with a raised hand. He gestures towards Alastair without looking at either of them.

“If he’s coming with us you should move him now.”

Grayson allows himself a moment, as long as he can bear, to think about exactly what he’s doing. The truth is that an eternity wouldn’t be long enough. There are simply too many possibilities and not enough time, and he knows, _he knows_ : he made his choice when he refused the Lord Chancellor. He can’t change that now.

The moment passes. Nikola’s moved into the room beyond, shifting something heavy sounding, and Alastair –

Alastair’s watching him, growing ever paler and looking as worn out as Grayson’s seen him. His jaw works as they stare each other down, as though he wants to say something. Or perhaps it’s in pain, and he’s biting back the urge to make a noise. Much as he’d like to deny it he can’t pretend he’s not impressed by the man’s fortitude; for all that he looks ready to lose consciousness, even appeared to a few minutes earlier, for whatever reason he’s still hanging on.

Though by the look in his eyes, he thinks he knows one reason for it. He’s all too familiar with that himself right now.

Grayson pauses over him, considering his next move.

… Perhaps he should’ve grabbed those ruined clothes after all.

“Don’t even think of trying anything,” he warns. Alastair says nothing in reply, and Grayson takes one last cursory look around before he crouches. A shoulder he wedges under Alastair’s armpit, an arm he wraps around Alastair’s waist, and slowly he gets the both of them upright.

Inside the office Nikola is waiting for them by the rear wall, a leather carry bag slung awkwardly over one shoulder and something grey and rolled up held to his chest. By his feet is a pit – a trap door, he realises, though he has no idea how it was concealed. Nothing in the room seems out of place.

“This will get us into the tunnels,” Nikola says. He backs away as Grayson shuffles the two of them forward and peers down into the dark.

“So this is how you managed to sneak out,” Alastair mumbles, as though speaking to himself. The comment turns Grayson’s head but Alastair’s returned to his silence, staring down into the pit like it holds all the secrets of the world.

“Nikola,” Grayson motions to his side with his head, and Nikola puts as much space as he can between himself and Alastair while he crosses round the room. His uncertain look only increases when Grayson says, “Take my sidearm.”

“Sir Galahad –”

“It’s the revolver or the blade, Nikola. You’re vulnerable enough already.”

Nikola looks like he’d rather continue arguing, but he nods, reaches into Grayson’s holster and pulls the gun free. For a moment he just holds it awkwardly, obviously unsure of what to do with it, and Grayson starts to wish he’d offered the holster as well. Finally, with a grimace of pain, he tucks it into the back of his pants. He seems about as ready as he’ll ever be when their eyes meet again.

Right. Now or never.

He takes another look into the pit, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark. It takes a moment but eventually the details emerge. A series of crates are set up inside, acting as a makeshift staircase and easing the way to the ground. Small mercies; Grayson hadn’t enjoyed the thought of dropping Alastair down the hole.

It’s awkward enough as it is, and slow going, the two of them trying to match steps as they head down into the dark, but finally Grayson feels solid ground beneath his boots. Alastair makes a shivery kind of motion against his side then, draws in a breath surely more instinctual than intentional; he’s gotten himself back under control a moment later, and though he can barely see anything Grayson still looks his way. Nikola’s coming down behind them before he has time to ask, pressing at a part of the stone wall, and with a gravelly _scrape_ part of what Grayson had assumed to be the ceiling slides back into place, covering their entry and leaving them in complete darkness.

“Well, this is promising,” Alastair says.

Grayson digs his fingers into his arm. “Nikola?”

“Just a moment, Sir Galahad.”

There’s the sound of shoes shuffling against stone, a metallic kind of clinking, and then the passageway is illuminated. Nikola holds a lantern aloft and their surroundings are revealed: high ceilings and archways, dust and old stone. Unlike the other tunnels of the catacombs there seem to be no lights here. Most of the floor is wet, dark puddles scattered all over, staining the ground, and when the wind blows through it carries all the chill of the damp passage. No wonder Alastair had shuddered.

The path ahead leads straight and winds into the darkness. Grayson secures his grip around the other man and starts forward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick word about the tags: I'll be updating character tags as new faces appear, and relationships as they change, for the sake of suspense (because I'm dramatic like that). Major content tags won't change, but the minor ones might - I feel like I have them all covered as of right now, but if I've forgotten any they'll show up eventually.
> 
> The important ones to note at the moment, though? Slow Build, Slow Burn, Exposition, and Worldbuilding? They're there for a reason. This shit's _long_.
> 
> Chapter first posted 6 March 2018.

Between the slow pace and the static nature of their environment it feels to Grayson as though they’re simply moving in place. Had there been any lights in these tunnels they might reveal some variation in their surroundings; as it is Nikola’s lantern barely illuminates their path, let alone reveals anything unique around them. Every so often they’ll pass an iron gate, rusty and forgotten, or his foot will connect with a stray rock that threatens to send them tumbling, but there is little more than that. It leaves him feeling strange, off-kilter in a way he really doesn’t enjoy.

The silence that has settled over them is one borne of tension and exhaustion. Grayson strains his ears for every little noise, intending to be aware come what may, but all he can focus on is the sounds of his companions. Nikola speaks only when he must, informing him of the changes in direction that need to be made before falling quiet again; Grayson hears more. The uneven inhale of his breathing and the tiny noises of discomfort he fails to hide are thunderous to Grayson’s ears, looping until it’s the only thing occupying his mind. Every faltering step churns an unpleasant mix of guilt and anger in his gut and it gnaws away at him. Nikola, his friend, is forced to carry on, unaided in his injured state, while Grayson helps the very man who made him that way.

He wonders if Nikola’s the forgiving sort. If he is, would Grayson even deserve it?

Alastair, in contrast, hasn’t spoken since their descent. Every movement speaks of pain but much like Nikola he tamps it down, trying – and failing – to regulate his breathing, caging mutinous groans back behind his teeth. He keeps up with the pace Grayson sets despite his injuries, stumbling only so often, but the further they travel it becomes increasingly obvious that he’s shifting more of his weight to Grayson, and all without saying a word.

His compliance is easily one of the more worrying aspects of this entire situation and it leaves Grayson on edge. Of all the things he’d expected – snide comments, fiery rages, and most of all, escape attempts – blind obedience was not among them. He feels as though he’s walking along a precipice, convinced that around every corner the turn will be revealed and Alastair’s masterplan will unfurl, but more and more they walk and nothing comes forth.

He wants to believe there’s more fight in Alastair than this; that, as much strife as it would cause them, he wouldn’t simply resign himself to his fate. But then, he never really knew the man, did he?

It might be his imagination but it feels to Grayson as though they’ve started heading down an incline. There’s a smell in the air, something damp and cold that sticks in his nostrils and makes him think of rainy winter mornings. Beside him Alastair shivers; Nikola’s lantern beam briefly passes over the path ahead and shows it to be almost entirely wet. There’s a sound in the background of it all, coming more and more into his awareness the harder he focuses on it. He almost comes to a stop he’s so caught up in straining his ears to hear; rhythmic and low – could it be …?

“We’re almost there,” Nikola says.

The noise seems to catch them all by surprise, sudden and loud in the quiet. Nikola doesn’t dwell on it. With a hiss of pain he pushes on, past the two of them and around the corner that’s now in sight before Grayson can call to him to wait.

He hasn’t gone too far. The passageway comes to an abrupt stop not far after the corner, as Grayson learns when he and Alastair round the bend to find Nikola –

Standing before a large grate, water sloshing about his feet as he attends to a rowboat secured in the middle of the tunnel.

Alastair starts shaking against him, and for a moment Grayson thinks the combination of the cold and his injuries has finally won out. Then he hears it: barely there but present, breathless and verging on hysterical. He’s _laughing_.

“You can’t be serious,” he gets out, finally.

Grayson grits his teeth. It’s with a practiced ease that he ducks out from under Alastair’s arm and lowers him to ground; he’s not callous enough as to drop him there, but when he hits the cold wet stone and winces Grayson can’t pretend he feels bad about it. The filthy look shot his way goes ignored as he approaches the boat, resting a hand against its side to ease its gentle rocking.

His friend is in up to his elbows, his belongings already secure at one end of the boat. It’s in good condition, from what he can see of it; he knows Nikola would have inspected the craft the moment he reached its side, but for the sake of his own peace of mind he needs to check it himself.

Standing there, looking out through the grate, with the boat shifting under his hand, he can’t quite ignore the voice in his head, however much it sounds like Alastair.

“Nikola,” he starts slowly, “are you sure –”

“They’re less likely to look for us here than on the streets.” Nikola reaches beneath the water, fumbling with something for a moment before he pulls free a bundle – the oars, tied together and attached to a weight. He looks at Grayson and even in such sickly lighting, with as tired and pained as he must be, there’s determination there. “It’s too late to turn back now.”

Grayson reaches out to take the oars while he thinks. He can’t argue with the logic, no matter how much he might want to. Even under the cover of darkness they’d make for a suspicious sight, regardless of the path they took; Alastair’s naked state alone would draw them unwanted attention. And while the entire Royal Army will be on high alert, they won’t be expecting them on a path seemingly no one knows about. Viewed in such a light, escape by water seems like the only rational choice. That doesn’t stop his thoughts from falling all over, conjuring up images of them stranded in the middle of the Thames, drowning in spotlights, riddled with bullets. He can only imagine how incredibly slowly they’ll be moving, too. Three grown men in a boat and only one of them rowing? The only way they’d make for an easier target was if they were hanging in Nikola’s lab with bullseyes painted on their chests.

If only Alastair could be trusted, he thinks bitterly, all too aware of the vial in his pocket; he sets the notion aside before he can dwell on it.

And then there’s the other matter, the one he’d rather not think about: he can’t actually come up with a place for them to go. Every Order-sanctioned safe house is out; that leaves the Rebels, and Nikola is the one with the strongest connection to them. If any of them would have an idea of somewhere to lay low, it’s him, but the thought of laying more responsibility at his feet is not one Grayson’s fond of. How much more can he ask of him?

Nikola gently grasps his arm, jolting him out of his musings.

“Do you know where we’re heading?”

Grayson clears his throat. Well, then. Cutting straight to the heart of it, as he always seems to do.

“I had hoped …”

The look on Nikola’s face stops him almost immediately; he abandons beating round the bush in a heartbeat.

“What of the safe house you took me to?”

“They will surely have discovered it by now.” Nikola pauses, brow furrowed as he thinks. After a moment he nods to himself. “I know of a place. I can direct you.”

Grayson clasps him on the shoulder in lieu of thanks. He’s turning away when there’s a touch to his arm; when he looks back Nikola holds up a hand, reaches into the boat. A moment later he pulls free the rolled-up grey item and offers it to him. This close and in the light, he realises, finally: it’s a blanket.

“Here. For …”

He gestures towards Alastair, eyes firmly averted. Grayson takes the soft bundle from him and as soon as it’s in his grip Nikola turns to face the grate. There’s tension in every line of his body; he’s holding himself so tightly that Grayson’s sure the slightest provocation will shatter him.

So of course Alastair chooses that moment to start laughing again, a low rumbling chuckle that nevertheless carries over to them, and Nikola flinches _hard_. Grayson squeezes his shoulder and glares back at Alastair, whose amusement only fades when another fit of coughing overtakes him.

When he finally gets himself under control he meets Grayson’s gaze, eyes bleary but full of challenge.

“Such concern, Nikola,” Alastair says, voice rough. “I’m touched.”

There’s a brush against his hand and then fingers ease his grip; he hadn’t realised how tightly he’d been holding.

“Nikola –”

“It’s alright, I’m …”

He doesn’t even try to finish his sentence. Nikola’s half-turned towards him; his hands are twisting around each other and he’s still very plainly not looking anywhere near Alastair.

Grayson settles for a nod and hopes it’s enough. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

His efforts to not kick water all over Alastair on his way over go unappreciated; the other man doesn’t look at him, not even when Grayson’s standing directly over him. It makes him wish he’d given in to those childish urges. Alastair himself hasn’t moved from where he was sat down: he’s pulled his legs in close to himself, whether out of modesty, warmth, or both. He’s visibly shaking now, though, and gooseflesh covers his skin. His hand is still pressed to his wounded stomach.

“Show me your injury.”

Alastair doesn’t move, only – slowly – drags his gaze up to meet Grayson’s.

Grayson narrows his eyes. “Move your hand, Alastair.”

He lets the threat hang in the air as they stare each other down. It may be that he’ll have to act on it – time is of the essence, and they all know it – but he’s willing to bet he can outlast Alastair. He understands Grayson’s resolve by now.

Sooner than he expects, between one breath and the next, the fire in Alastair dies. He slumps further in on himself, if such a thing is possible, and looks down at his hand as he begins to pry it away. It’s no idle turn of phrase; the blood has made his hand tacky, leaving it all but sticking to the wound. Grayson watches on but leaves him to it.

With a sucked in hiss his hand comes free. Grayson crouches down to get a better look as Alastair twitches in pain, clearly fighting the urge to reconceal the injury. His hand keeps fluttering above it and Grayson has to brush it aside so he can make an assessment.

Grayson’s willing to admit he knows little about Lycan healing abilities, and even less about its effects in their untransformed state. It’s difficult to hold a conversation with a creature busy trying to tear your throat out, after all, and their mandate has always been kill over capture. Some amount of healing has obviously taken place, Alastair would’ve bled out long ago otherwise, but looking at the wound – it’s still visible, still _open_. There’s so much blood smeared around it that it leaves details hard to make out, but it doesn’t hide the wound itself, an angry red line surrounded by angry red skin. With every breath the skin pulls, exposing the depth of the injury; as he watches more blood starts to ooze out.

It’s about as bad as he imagined and somehow worse all at once.

Grayson stands. Alastair slaps his hand back down, gritting his teeth, but Grayson imagines he can still see it. His head is full of impossible thoughts, questions he already knows the answers to, answers that would make asking those questions insane; and yet … He reaches into his pocket, fingers meeting metal. He pulls the object free.

It’s a ridiculous notion.

He has to know.

He holds up the Blackwater vial.

“If I gave you this,” he says, and sees the way Alastair’s eyes lock onto it, “what are the chances of you capsizing the boat?”

Alastair bares his teeth. “Take your chances, Grayson. You’ll get no help from me.”

Grayson makes a considering noise, closes his hand around the vial.

“I thought as much.”

The vial goes safely back into his pocket. Now it’s just a matter of getting him to the boat. The temptation to simply dump the blanket on top of him and drag him to it is undeniably there – the look on his face alone would be worth the trouble – and judging by Alastair’s expression, he must expect something similar from him. There’s no easy way to do it; he can’t imagine Alastair will just let himself be wrapped up, and in fact it’d probably be simpler to abandon the idea altogether. It’s unexpectedly kind, though, this gesture of Nikola’s, and Grayson is unwilling to give up on it so soon.

And speaking practically, Alastair could use the warmth.

“Remember what I told you,” Grayson warns, tucking the blanket tighter under his arm.

Alastair cocks his head to one side. “To which specific threat are you referring?”

Grayson resists the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes.

It takes some amount of wrangling, keeping his hold on the rolled-up bundle as he hooks Alastair’s arm over his shoulder, but he manages it. Getting them both to their feet is more difficult this time round, though the lack of distance makes up for it; Nikola pulls the boat closer and holds it steady as Alastair half-climbs, half-tips into it, just barely avoiding splashing them all. Before he can second guess himself Grayson unfurls the blanket and drapes it over Alastair’s back. He pretends not to notice the jolt that runs through him at the touch; after a long moment Alastair pulls the edges closed around him and slumps awkwardly to the rear end of the boat.

Nikola’s the next one in, though he does his best to avoid it, attempting to push the boat to the tunnel opening with him until Grayson puts a stop to his efforts. It’s with much consternation that he claims the end opposite Alastair, and once settled he lays the revolver across his thighs, holding it steady with both hands.

He’s soaked up above the knees when he reaches the grate, but for all its weight the metal swings up and out with only the slightest of noises. Grayson clambers in before the water gets any deeper – Nikola takes on the grate holding duty, biting back gasps as he reaches out – and then he paddles them through the opening and they’re in the Thames proper, they’re _out_.

He grants himself one breath, one deep lungful of cold air in celebration. He lowers the grate as far as his arms will allow and then lets it swing closed, only a gentle splash and a muffled _clang_ evidence to their being there.

Grayson pushes them out, just enough so he can row safely. Then he takes up the oars and looks at Nikola.

“Where to?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing fic for this game has been a strange process. Generally when I research anything involving a different time period my brain starts screaming HISTORICAL ACCURACY!!! at me and I have to obsessively stick to it ... but here I've had to remind myself more than once that werewolves and vampires and Tesla-made super guns are a thing in this universe, so the world would be different anyway, so maybe getting everything exactly on point isn't such a big deal?
> 
> All of which to say: I did a lot of googling about a lot of stuff to try to keep things accurate to the time period. If I got some stuff wrong, go easy on me. If in doubt, as always, suspend that disbelief!
> 
> Chapter first posted 20 March 2018.

Nikola points him downstream. It’s the exact opposite of the direction he’d like to be heading but Grayson nods and starts rowing. He tries to keep them moving at a decent pace while staying as quiet as possible and the result is them travelling about as slowly as he predicted. As they pass under Westminster Bridge his heart is in his throat; every passing carriage and distant shout from above sends his pulse pounding in his ears, but they emerge and continue on the other side, undetected and unscathed.

Grayson hasn’t believed in God for a very long time, but if there is a force watching over them, they’re being unusually benevolent.

They travel onward.

“Stick close to the embankment,” Nikola murmurs to him at one point, leaning close so as to be heard, “it’s safer than open water.”

If they’re discovered then no part of the water they’re on will be safe, but Grayson heeds the words and avoids steering them to the deeper parts of the river. They share the water with a few larger vessels but they all pass by without incident, mostly undermanned and safely on the other side of the river. The darkness provides exactly the kind of security he’d hoped for – there are no lights this near to the embankment, and it’s late enough that the streets are empty – though being so close to the river’s edge provides its own set of worries. It’s highly unlikely, but the thought of some young drunken fool stumbling upon them fills him with an unpleasant sense of dread.

 “It’s coming up soon, over there, on the left.”

Grayson pauses in his rowing so he can take a better look. He has to squint in the darkness, and even then, he can’t make out much, but there are lights in the distance, gently illuminating several buildings and what could be wharfs extending into the water. He tries to determine how far they’ve travelled and pair it with his knowledge of the city.

The answer makes him frown. “Queenhithe dock?”

“There is a warehouse.”

“And an entire yard crawling with witnesses, most likely.”

Nikola lays a hand on his shoulder. “Trust me, Sir Galahad.”

Grayson takes in a deep breath and resumes rowing.

The closer they get the more he strains his ears, searching for any sign they’re about to be discovered. Someone still occupies the place, that much he can tell – from not far off there’s the clash and clatter that can only be physical labour, and the occasional burst of men shouting – but no guards patrol the perimeter. It’s with a great deal of caution that he propels them towards the docks, using their momentum more than anything to keep moving; the oars would make for a decent makeshift weapon but he’d rather avoid confrontation altogether if possible.

They come to a stop alongside the last wharf, as close as he can get to where it meets land to keep the boat steady. Nikola is the first one out, carry bag once more secure across his shoulder and revolver tucked into the back of his pants. Grayson catches the look he casts their way, how it lingers on the third member of their party, and when he follows that gaze he understands its meaning immediately. Alastair hasn’t moved. Through all the rocking motion of their journey here he hasn’t said a word, hasn’t shifted from that first spot he settled down in. Now his eyes are closed, he’s unaware – or uncaring – that they’ve reached their destination, and _they have to get him out of the boat_.

How are they getting him out of the boat?

Grayson edges closer.

“Time to move, Alastair,” he says, voice quiet. He lays a hand on Alastair’s shoulder and gives it a shake.

The man in question makes a valiant attempt, it must be said: one eye opens a sliver, just enough to see out of, and promptly falls closed again. Much of the colour has drained out of his face, and as close as he is now Grayson can see the trembling that has overtaken Alastair’s body. That he’s not trying to hide it – unwilling or unable to – is a bad sign.

There’s nothing else to it. Grayson wraps his arms around his blanket-covered middle and lifts.

If a patrolling guard or curious onlooker had seen the three of them then, they’d be privy to an unusual sight: Nikola, with one arm reaching down to hold the boat steady, his other tight around Alastair’s torso, pulling him back inch by agonising inch, and Grayson, doing his best not to tip the boat, pushing him further onto dry land.

When Alastair’s far enough aground that only his leg is hanging over the side Grayson considers the job done. Despite their efforts the boat has shifted some, out of Nikola’s grasp and further down the dock – it’s still within reach, though only just – and as he wobbles one leg onto the wharf the tenuous balancing act they’ve been attempting finally goes to pieces. Grayson leverages himself up with one hard push and feels the boat slipping out from under his foot seconds before he hits solid ground. A sudden and intense appreciation for being dry rising in his chest, he glances back at the boat, watches it drift away from the wharf.

“It’s far too suspicious, leaving it like that, surely?”

“There’s little else that we can do, my friend.”

Grayson nods. Without any further delay he strides down the dock, hoisting Alastair’s largely unresponsive form up. “Which way?”

“The warehouse we are after is furthest to the right and closest to the street.” Nikola points towards their destination.

 “Of course it is,” he says to himself, and then, slightly louder, “be on your guard, Nikola.”

Grayson leads them forward, edging along the outside of the warehouses, while Nikola keeps them covered from behind; Alastair, head lolling against his own shoulder, doesn’t do much of anything. As they move Grayson pairs what he can recall of this place with what he sees, creating a quick mental map. The warehouses are laid out in a standard grid structure, a couple of buildings to each row; a narrow street runs between each building, providing access, and larger main roads separate the rows, allowing travel from the wharfs to the street entrance. It’s these larger roads that give Grayson pause. If their luck is going to run out anywhere it’ll be here, right when he’s in the middle of crossing, moving slower than ever and with Alastair literally dragging his feet.

He stops when he comes to the first one, peering around the corner.

“Nikola,” he calls, “you first. Let us know when it’s safe to cross.”

With a grim nod Nikola inches forward, revolver held at the ready. He peers around the corner much like Grayson just had, and after a deep breath, dashes across the gap.

Well – _dashes_ probably isn’t the word for it, but he moves as quickly as he’s able, and makes it to the other side without incident. It leaves him worryingly hunched over for a few moments, and Grayson feels himself lurching forward, ready to damn all sense of caution to make sure he’s alright, but he’s upright again before any such actions can be taken. As dedicated as he is to any task, Nikola keeps watch, and waves them across when their path is clear.

It’s a crossing they need to make mercifully few times. The danger is by no means over but he feels safer now, in the shadows of the buildings, than he has in a good long while; the noises of the workers he’d been so concerned with grow quieter with each step. Once or twice Alastair recovers enough to remember the situation they’re in, gets his feet back under him; as small a contribution as it is, it still helps. But as quickly as these moments come they vanish just as fast, and Alastair dips under again, leaving Grayson to drag what might as well be dead weight.

Eventually Nikola lays a hand on his arm and slips around him, heading with purpose towards one of the warehouses. For all their sakes, Grayson hopes they’ve reached their destination.

He follows Nikola as he makes for one of the smaller side doors, watches him as he braces himself against the frame. Nikola reaches deep into his bag and pulls out a set of keys – the same keys from the lab? – and starts flicking through them. It’s the only time the darkness fails them, as he first watches Nikola struggle to find the correct key, and then fumble getting it into the padlock. The light above the doorway is broken it seems; whether accidentally or by the rebels’ hands, he’s unsure. He can’t focus on the details at a time like this. The wait is torturous, every second an eternity, and that feeling of safety he’d been so enjoying is fading fast.

The key turns with an audible click and Nikola sighs without reserve. He pulls the lock free and swings the door open, holds it so as Grayson shuffles himself and Alastair inside; Grayson stands by, watches as he takes one final look around before he shuts it tight.

Inside, the warehouse is mostly sparse. It’s deceptively large; save for what appears to be an office in the corner directly ahead it looks like one open space. A foldout partition wall – or at least that’s what Grayson assumes it is – rests to his right, allowing the room to be further divided. There’s just enough of a work space set up for the place to avoid suspicion, benches and cabinets where they belong and a small wood-burning stove near the office entrance. Windows are set high up along the walls, covered in grime.

The office seems to be the most isolated part of the warehouse, so Grayson heads there first. Much like the rest of the building it’s bigger than first impressions would suggest, though perhaps that’s due to the lack of furnishings; a plush-looking armchair sits in one corner, and a desk and a chest of drawers rest against opposites walls, but the room is otherwise empty, bare of any decoration. The lack of windows at once makes the office more secure and incredibly dark, though a naked bulb hangs from the ceiling. Grayson leaves it off for the time being.

The wall directly opposite the office entrance is nothing but open space, so that’s where he chooses to set Alastair down. The man is either giving the second greatest acting performance of his life – no prize for guessing first – or he’s well and truly unconscious. There’s no reaction from him at all as Grayson props him up against the wall, or when he arranges the blanket around him to provide better cover. His breathing seems steady for the moment, but he’s still shivering. Grayson touches the back of his hand to Alastair’s forehead; he could be imagining it, but the skin is warmer than he expects.

The thought settles uncomfortably in his mind. He doesn’t have time to linger on it. Alastair won’t stay unconscious for long. With Nikola just in the other room he’ll have to find a way to keep him secured.

There’s little to search. Every draw that can be opened, is, revealing blueprints and ledgers and stationery, a flask and, most curiously, a small tin full of pounds. Nothing of worth, or at least nothing that helps with his particular needs. He’ll have to search the warehouse itself.

The armchair, though, makes him pause: he has no use for it, but he can think of one member of their party who deserves a little comfort.

After all but carrying Alastair for as long as he has the chair is feather light. When he emerges from the office, chair firmly in his grasp, it’s to discover Nikola making his way around the interior, one hand out against the wall to keep him steady. He pauses as he nears one of the benches, whereupon he sets down Grayson’s revolver, then runs his fingers along the top and examines the dust that comes away with them.

It’s then that he turns and notices Grayson’s approach, and his look of appreciation is worth every hardship.

“This place is not often used, but there should still be some supplies left behind.”

“And we’ll be safe here.”

It comes out sounding less definitive than he intends. Judging by the expression on Nikola’s face he notices the slip, too; Grayson busies himself setting the armchair down and pretends like he didn’t see.

“We will have to find a way to signal them,” Nikola says, his voice sounding more and more faraway, “otherwise …”

“One step at a time, Nikola. For now, rest,” and he points squarely at the chair.

It speaks to the exhaustion he must be feeling that Nikola doesn’t argue with him, doesn’t say anything in fact, just heads straight for the chair and sinks into it, closing his eyes. Grayson takes a toolbox from one of the workbenches and sets it down by his feet, should he desire a footrest, and then leaves the man to his rest, collecting his gun on the way past.

There’s far more to search through out here. Some of the drawers and cabinet doors bear locks, though they open without any additional effort and he’s thankful for the momentary grace. His initial rummaging leaves much to be desired, though, turning up the same kind of material as was in the office, but now the sight only makes him more determined. For a while the only sound that fills the warehouse is the slide of wood on wood and the shuffling of objects, and piece by piece he starts uncovering the Rebellion’s remaining cache. At the back of one tall shelf he finds a small collection of candles and several tins of food; hidden beneath a drawer’s false bottom is a medical kit, well stocked; stacked together in a dark corner, along with a few more tins of food, are what he hopes to be canisters of water; hanging from a post on the wall are several lengths of rope; finally, at the very bottom of a cabinet, buried beneath charts, he finds a set of manacles.

He gathers together the various goods, spreads them out over one benchtop for closer examination.

With a great deal of care he pours some liquid out of one of the canisters into a mug left behind – once he’s done his best to wipe it free of dust, of course – and brings it up to his face. It has no discernible smell, though that isn’t necessarily a good thing. There are few avenues left for him to determine what it is, though, so, trying as hard as he can not to think of accidental poisoning, he tosses it back.

“Eugh,” he grimaces. Stale, and with a noticeable metallic aftertaste, but it’s water; provided it doesn’t kill him, beggars can’t be choosers.

The tins of food are still sealed, which is the only thing that matters, and he breathes a little easier with the knowledge that their most immediate needs will be seen to. The medial kit is an unexpected boon, one he intends to make full use of; he has his suspicions as to Nikola’s injuries, and as soon as he’s let him rest some he plans on tending to him. An image of Alastair’s wound fills his mind then, oozing blood and in need of attention; he shoves the thought back down. He won’t make life any easier for the man, not before he’s seen to Nikola, and certainly not before he’s tied him up. If nothing else he can spare some water to clean him up; it would be more hygienic than that of the Thames’, at least.

He refuses to feel guilty over this, Grayson tells himself, not when there’s more than one method of healing available to the man. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Blackwater vial, sets it alongside the rest of the collection. He stares at it for a while, fingers framing the object. It’s the odd one out, too refined among the everyday utility of the rest; it’s an act of mercy next to the promise of imprisonment. It’s a balm he ought to give to a man he wants to see suffer.

Grayson closes his eyes and pushes the vial out of his grasp. When he opens them again he takes up the rope, and slowly he turns his head towards the office.

One step at a time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your fun fact for today: did you know that in the Blackwater Archives art book Alastair, Isabeau, and the Lord Chancellor's surname is spelled d'Argyll? Just stuck out to me as I'm so used to seeing fandom spell it D'Argyll. Guess I'll have to decide which one to go with if/when I ever refer to them by their last name.
> 
> This chapter contains one of the first scenes I ever wrote for this fic. Not _the_ first scene I ever wrote, mind you. That's so, so, _so_ many chapters away from now it'll be a miracle I ever get to post it. Still. Fun to think back on.
> 
> Chapter first posted 3 April 2018.

Time moves strangely that first day.

The warehouse has no clocks on display, not even in the office, which he finds somewhat baffling. Grayson has Sebastien’s pocket watch at least – one of the smuggled items Nikola had left for him, another act of kindness he’s yet to repay – but if he continues to check it he’ll drive himself mad. It’s something about the windows as well, he thinks, the way that light comes through them: or fails to, as is the more likely case. Everything is cast in a murky tone, and the only indication he has of the time of day is how deep the gloom is. He takes to listening as his makeshift timepiece; the raucous noise of the dock workers tells him not the exact hour of the day, but instead when he should be most cautious.

His top priority is to secure the building. No entryway goes unchecked, every lock is examined, and only when he decides that climbing up to inspect the windows would be overdoing it does he feel content with their safety.

Next, he sees to Nikola. The man has slipped in and out of waking ever since he settled into the chair, twitching awake at the slightest of sounds, sometimes at nothing at all. It’s not an unexpected turn of events, considering everything he’s been through – and Grayson can’t help but think of how much responsibility he bears there – but he finds himself wishing nonetheless that Nikola had been able to get more rest. He’ll need as much of it as he can get. They all will.

At the very least they’re both spared the cruelty of waking him; when Grayson turns back from retrieving the medical kit Nikola’s eyes are squinted open, staring vaguely at the open office door. He shuffles back up in his chair as Grayson approaches, wincing with the effort; Grayson sets the kit on the edge of a nearby bench and cracks it open.

“I’ll need to see your chest, Nikola.”

“Wait, Sir Galahad, before that,” he says in a rush, one shaky hand held out, “what of – what of Alastair?”

“He is secure, and for the time being, unconscious.” Grayson pauses, looking over his shoulder at the office. When he turns his attention back Nikola is eyeing him. “I don’t like the idea of him in that room unobserved. I’ll keep watch.”

Nikola’s gaze finally falls away, the wheels in his head clearly turning, and then he nods, declaring, “We’ll take turns.”

“Nikola –”

“You too must rest.” Nikola speaks over him, voice momentarily clear of pain and instead full of determination. “You may not like hearing it, but you are our best chance at survival. Should anything happen to you …”

Grayson is touched by the concern, truly, and Nikola’s right: he doesn’t like hearing it. The thought of putting Nikola in danger he likes even less.

“Let me see your injuries. You won’t be much good on guard duty if your lungs are busy collapsing in on themselves.” Nikola opens his mouth to argue; now it’s Grayson’s turn to cut him off. “All I want is to make sure you’re safe. If your wounds aren’t severe I swear I’ll be reasonable. Deal?”

With a grim nod Nikola reaches up to begin undoing his apron. Grayson steps in the second that he starts having trouble, which doesn’t take long at all; it’s a slow process from there, undoing straps and buttons until he can peel enough of his shirt away to reveal the damage.

His chest is a mess of red and blue, bruises spreading across most of his front and edging around his right side; not even his back is spared, though the marks there are far less vicious. Grayson winces in sympathy at the sight.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” he says, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “This may hurt some.”

He begins pressing against the skin, searching for any indicators of a break in his ribs. To his credit Nikola bears it better than most, grits his teeth and tries his hardest not to make a sound; he’s not anywhere near successful, nor does he manage to keep from flinching, but the attempt is admirable. Much as he wants to avoid prolonging Nikola’s suffering Grayson forces himself to take his time, making the examination as thorough as he can manage. When he’s done with that he reaches for the medical kit, pulls free the stethoscope.

“Your lungs sound clear,” he says, sitting back when he’s content with what he’s heard. “You’ll have to breathe deeply, as much as it may hurt. As for your ribs … nothing appears broken, but I need you to tell me if the pain worsens. The healing arts are not my forte.”

“That is … good to hear.” Nikola breathes out a mostly steady breath. He sounds relieved, though his face shows otherwise.

“There is a bottle of laudanum here, if you feel –”

“No,” Nikola says quickly, and pays for it with a wince, “no, I will manage without, for now.”

Grayson nods, and places the bottle back in the kit. He helps Nikola return his clothes to normal and then pauses by his chair.

“Short shifts,” he says slowly, and tries to ignore the way Nikola’s face lights up. “No more than two hours at a time. And you keep watch from outside the office. The second it looks to be doing you harm you’re back on rest until I say otherwise.” Grayson takes a moment, tries to think of any other restrictions, and comes up short. “Fair enough?”

“I know better than to try changing your mind when you’re set on something.”

It’s said with some manner of affection, though the expression Nikola wears is something else entirely. He doesn’t know what he’d call it. Wistful, perhaps. Whatever it is, it draws out of Grayson the feeling that rises inside him every time he sees his injured form, a feeling he’d rather suppress: that he’s responsible, that things should’ve turned out differently.

He wonders maybe if Nikola thinks that, too.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

Nikola looks up at him and manages a grim smile. “I am alright, Sir Galahad. I will try to rest some more until my watch.”

“Let me know if I can help,” he says, and leaves him to his own devices.

As a precaution he sets out one of the water canisters and a tin of food on a bench within Nikola’s line of sight, should he feel like declining Grayson’s offer. On a whim he pulls out the partition wall he’d first noticed upon entering the warehouse; it locks into place just to the left of where Nikola sits, concealing him from the door they came in through as well as the office. It isn’t much, but he’s found that when stuck in confined quarters for an unknown length of time even the illusion of privacy can be enough.

Lighting the small stove is a risk – any attentive passer-by might see the smoke and come to the right conclusion – but it’s a risk he takes anyway. The season’s chill is already firmly attached to them thanks to their jaunt down the river, and any hope he holds of that changing with their surroundings is swiftly taken from him. The cold seeps in even here, and soon it won’t be a question of whether he can risk it, but whether he can afford not to.

Soon the room is bathed in a warm orange glow, the light from the fire flickering in a hypnotic manner. The sound of crackling wood fills the space and it’s comforting to hear, and ever so slowly heat begins creeping through the room. He doubts it’ll be enough to chase off the cold completely, but it’s better than nothing.

There’s nothing else for it: Grayson claims the first shift of his watch. With a bit of effort he shifts the desk closer to the door, angles it so he can still move freely around the piece of furniture; it provides them both a bit of breathing room, plus a more accessible piece of cover should anything happen. He sets a candle on the desk in case he needs it and settles in. Separating Nikola from his armchair was never a consideration; instead he claims the room’s other seat, the desk’s chair, a plain, wooden thing with wheels.

Treacherous, his mind is quick to remind him of the comfort he’s missing out on, just beyond the doorway. He forces the thought down.

The hours pass.

Grayson has taken part in some truly horrendous surveillance missions, has spent countless hours lying in wait where only his immense professionalism prevented him from tearing his hair out from boredom. None of those experiences can measure up to this, he finds himself thinking at some point; at least he still had comrades then. Now he waits, alone but for his thoughts.

“Grayson.”

Well. Maybe not as alone as he believed.

“Why not end this, Grayson? What do you hope to gain?”

Whatever benevolent deity had smiled upon during their river escape clearly favours them no longer.

The words are slurred, not so badly to be indecipherable but enough to be noticed. Grayson doesn’t look up from the desk where he sits, checking and rechecking his revolver, his blade by his hand, ready to be inspected – or used. It’s the first that Alastair’s spoken since he tied his unconscious form up here; in the time since Grayson began his watch he’s dropped in and out of awareness, his longest period of wakefulness spent twisting in his bonds and snarling breathlessly. He’d been still for hours since then, and Grayson was almost able to imagine he was alone, out in the field on a mission, and that nothing was wrong. Alastair’s sudden words help kill that fantasy.

Grayson keeps his eyes on his work and his mouth shut. He doesn’t trust what might come out of it otherwise.

His silence doesn’t dissuade Alastair.

“I could do it, if you’re not up to the task. Wouldn’t even need a weapon. Just my hands around your neck …”

Alastair’s eyes are fever-bright when Grayson finally looks over at him. The blanket he’d wedged behind his back to wrap around him has slipped some, leaving a good deal of him exposed. He’s sweating, and beneath the bloodstains leftover from their encounter his pale skin wears a flush. Beyond the initial – small – dose of Blackwater and the cleaning of the worst of his wounds Grayson’s left him to his fate; Alastair is strong, in both body and will, and Grayson doesn’t doubt his ability to survive this. The ever-increasing possibility of infection has him troubled, though.

“Just finish this, Gray. Finish what we started.”

“Somehow I doubt it’d be a fair fight,” Grayson says, returning to his inventory.

“Who said it needed to be?”

He doesn’t offer a reply, and Alastair grows quiet, and soon the only sounds between them are his quiet tinkering and Alastair’s laboured breathing. After a while his eyes begin to ache; the candle he’s been working by has nearly burned out, he’s surprised to learn. It can’t be long until the sun rises, and he needs to wake Nikola for his turn on watch. Assuming the pain of his injuries hasn’t kept him awake, Grayson thinks, casting a bitter glare Alastair’s way. Their prisoner is asleep, though real or feigned, he can’t tell. He doesn’t particularly care.

Grayson pushes his chair back, collects his weapons and the rest of his belongings, and heads for the door. The sound of his name, called in a low, rough voice, makes him pause.

Alastair is watching him, eyes bleary and unfocused. He looks as though he’s struggling to stay awake.

“Is Nikola here?”

Grayson frowns, turns to face him properly. “What concern is it of yours?”

A long moment passes, until finally Alastair says, “Apologise to him for me, would you? It was never my intention to cause him harm.”

“And yet you did so regardless,” Grayson says, clenching his hands at his sides. It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t shake with rage. “Seems your intentions are as trustworthy as you are.”

He storms from the room without a backwards glance.

He doesn’t pass the words on to Nikola. It’s only later that he begins to wonder if Alastair even knew what he was saying.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had more work than usual lately, so much so that I lost track of the days and almost completely whiffed on posting today's update! Thankfully I remembered with enough time to spare. The schedule remains intact! \o/
> 
> Chapter first posted 17 April 2018.

In the increasing trend of cruel and undeserving twists that now comprise his life, Grayson begins to suspect that Alastair gets the most rest out of all of them.

He lies down for the first time since reaching the safe house knowing he’ll be unable to sleep; in his waking hours his thoughts had raced, even with the benefit of distraction. Now, with nothing but the wall and the black behind his eyelids, they multiply, thriving in his fatigue and uncertainty. Even had there been no need to take watch he doubts things would be any different. There is simply _too much_.

Worse is the way their situation seems to be impacting Nikola. While confirming the state of his injuries lent them both some peace of mind, it doesn’t remove their existence. Nikola had been bleary eyed and sore upon waking him for his shift; he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d barely slept at all. True to his word Grayson makes him keep watch from outside the office, rolls the chair out for him to sit – his offers of moving the armchair fiercely refused – but that only makes it easier for him to hear every uncomfortable shift, every shakily drawn in breath. If he was having trouble getting to sleep before, listening to those sounds up close and on repeat all but ensures it’s impossible.

Grayson sets Sebastien’s watch out in front of him, case open so the hour stares him in the face every time he opens his eyes. It’s easy enough to pretend that it’s a means of protecting Nikola, making sure he doesn’t overstay his shift; he doesn’t think he’ll convince anyone of its truth, let alone himself. There are few options for self-flagellation here so he’ll have to take what he can get.

The hours pass slowly.

He must drift off at some point, despite his mind’s best attempts otherwise. Between one blink and the next the watch’s hands travel quite a distance and for a moment he can only lay there, staring. He could’ve sworn he closed his eyes only for a second. It’s the worst kind of rest, the type that leaves nothing but dissatisfaction in its wake; he feels like his head is empty, like he’s one step removed from his own flesh; he wishes he could fall deeper into sleep, wishes he’d never tried at all.

At least he managed to get one thing right, placing them both near to the stove; the fire’s heat has sunk into him good and proper, and he feels more like a person now than he has in … he’s not sure how long.

It’s well past time for him to relieve Nikola of his watch – of course he wouldn’t say anything to wake him, the kind-hearted sneak – so with a groan he forces himself to his feet. There’s a moment where the world tilts precariously and as he waits for his equilibrium to return he vows never to sleep again. He’ll gladly bear every one of Nikola’s concerned looks if he must.

The spell passes; he moves to stand before Nikola, who looks up at him, tired but seemingly at ease.

“It is your turn to take watch, yes?”

Grayson peers into the office. Alastair hasn’t moved. Even now he is unbelievably still, and with his eyes closed for a heart-stopping second Grayson thinks the impossible has happened. He has to strain his eyes and only then does he see the rise and fall of Alastair’s chest.

When he turns back to Nikola he notices the revolver lying across his lap, held secure in one white-knuckled hand, and the sight stops him dead.

When did that happen?

His mind leaps into action, racing through his every step between the end of his watch and now, but for the life of him he can’t remember. He must’ve handed it over. Nikola wouldn’t just take it off his body. But he doesn’t remember doing it, and it sets his blood running cold.

“Sir Galahad?”

Grayson absolutely does not jump.

Nikola is watching him, brows furrowed. It takes some quick work to get his expression under control.

“Anything to report?”

Nikola blinks. “N-no, he … he hasn’t moved at all.”

Grayson nods. “Why not take a moment, the both of us. It’s as good a time as any to eat.” He holds his hand out for the revolver.

Nikola still appears troubled, but he hands the weapon over.

It would be infinitely easier to wheel Nikola over to the armchair yet Grayson finds himself offering his arm, supporting Nikola's hobble across the room. When he’s settled he brings them over one of the canisters and a tin of food: ham, according to the label. He pours some water into the mug he used earlier and passes it over, thinking again of beggars and choosing, and then sets about getting the can open. His blade is sharp enough – he’s cleaned it since they arrived, he’s not that big a fool – and the metal parts easily under his attentions.

The contents certainly resemble ham enough. He wipes the blade again then wedges out a portion of the meat. It comes free with the scrape of metal on metal and a squelching sound, sits on the edge of his blade mostly pink and glistening, and the more he looks at it the more he wants to change his mind. With a quick sniff to make sure it doesn’t smell like death he pulls it off and sticks it in his mouth.

He’s not sure if he imagines the metallic taste, but the salty flavour he knows is real. The meat is cold and chewy, and it’s more the texture than the taste that has his stomach turning. With a grimace he forces it down.

Nikola is watching him, a highly amused look on his face.

“It’s truly that delicious, then?”

“A taste for the ages,” he says, cuts another portion out as Nikola holds his chest, trying not to laugh.

When he’s recovered enough he accepts the offering from Grayson, looking so suspicious of the stuff that it’s a challenge not to smile. He watches Nikola chew once, twice, before his eyes squeeze shut and he swallows it in one go, his face all twisted up. This time it’s Grayson’s turn to laugh, soft chuckles escaping him as he digs more out.

“That is …” Nikola shakes his head, drinks deep from his mug. “I do not think I have the words. You are sure the can was not compromised?”

“We’ll find out in a few hours, give or take.”

So concentrated on his task is he that he misses the sound of his joke falling flat; when he glances up Nikola looks aghast. Grayson holds his hands up in apology.

“Peace, Nikola. They’re fine. Here, if you don’t believe me.”

He offers the can to him. Nikola takes it, still clearly dubious, and begins his inspection. Grayson looks on, knowing he’ll see just the same as Grayson saw: no discolouration, no warping, no leaks.

Nikola hands it back. “I suppose it wouldn’t be much worse if it was.”

“You’re probably right.”

They sit in silence for a while after that. It’s not exactly a feast – Grayson wasn’t hungry to begin with, and now he’s even less so – especially since he’s all too aware of the need to conserve their provisions. He can’t deny how good it feels to have something in his stomach, though, as unpalatable as it may have been on the way down.

More than anything it feels good to simply be _away_ , to sit here with Nikola and take a moment, the both of them, to take a step back from the situation they’re in. He enjoys it, for all that it lasts no time at all; soon enough Nikola grows distant, and Grayson finds himself wondering how much food he should spare for Alastair.

He sets the can down, stomach churning for entirely new reasons now.

He doesn’t want to dwell on it. He can’t. So instead he looks to Nikola, and reaches for that fleeting peace he’d just held.

“How are you feeling?”

It seems it’s Nikola’s turn to be startled, though he catches himself about as quickly as Grayson had. His face turns thoughtful.

“The pain is not yet intolerable,” he says. “But I worry about how we will contact Lady Lakshmi’s people. Have you seen anything that might help us manage it?”

It’s an entirely reasonable question, one that undoubtedly deserves his consideration, but it sticks under Grayson’s skin like a particularly tenacious thorn. Maybe it’s his fatigued mind or the closeness of their surroundings, maybe it’s the memory of Nikola’s injury or the thought of Alastair in the next room – but the change of topic suddenly feels like Nikola’s giving him an out. And he could take it, it would be so easy, just set things between them back to the way they were.

But then, he’s never been one for the easy road, has he.

“Nikola, everything that’s happened … I hope you know that I trust you implicitly.” Nikola’s face takes on a strange look; Grayson hurries on. “If I failed to show that during our journey here then clearly I’m at fault –”

“Sir Gala –”

“And I want you to know how sorry I am that all this came to pass, that you suffer now because of me.” His words threaten to stick in his throat; he clenches his fists and pushes through. “I wish things had worked out differently.”

Grayson’s not some school-aged romantic; he doesn’t blush or tremble upon revealing his thoughts so openly. He’d be lying if he said that doing so didn’t make him feel extremely exposed, though. He’s filled with the impression of speaking far too loudly in a particularly quiet room – which is not far from the truth, he’s sure – and the weight of Nikola’s attention is an especially heavy burden. Grayson deserves whatever rebukes come his way.

But as he does so well, Nikola surprises him.

He offers a smile, small but genuine.

“You forget that I played my own part in our affairs,” he says. “All of this … it is not the result of one man’s actions alone, whatever you may wish to think.” His smile turns playful. “Did I not say it would be alright?”

It feels like he’s been struck, he’s at such a loss. Inexplicably he’s back on the easy road and Nikola is once again the one who put him there. How does this keep happening?

He clears his throat, tries again. “I asked so much of you and offered nothing in return.”

“Are we not here and now alive because of you? That is more than enough. Though …” Nikola pauses, and Grayson is at once desperate and dreading to hear what comes next. “You said you would explain, back in the laboratory. Sir Galahad, please … help me understand.”

Of all the things he could have asked for this request is the most sensible. It’s also the question he’d least like to answer. If Nikola won’t abide his attempts at self-destruction then this will have to do.

“I can’t promise you’ll be satisfied with the answer,” he says, pauses for a moment as he gets his thoughts in order. “Did you hear our conversation? Mine and the Lord Chancellor’s?”

“Most of it I heard, yes.” Nikola gives a sheepish smile. “It made for a good enough distraction to keep from losing consciousness.”

Grayson’s not sure exactly what expression he makes then, but it wipes the smile off Nikola’s face almost immediately and has him hunching in on himself.

“You are right; that wasn’t a very good joke. My apologies. Please, continue.”

Blowing out a deep breath, Grayson goes on.

“… What he said, the Lord Chancellor … what he asked of me …”

It’s like he’s back in that room hearing those words for the first time, and whatever sense of humanity he thought he’d regained through warmth, food, and pleasant company vanishes, washed away in a tide of exhaustion and fury. It rushes through him, floods him hot with anger, and knowing that the catalyst for their troubles is just one room away only makes it worse. Grayson clenches his fists, closes his eyes as he tries to centre himself. When he opens them again he doesn’t look at Nikola.

“Surely you understand? I couldn’t allow him such an easy way out.”

There is only silence in the wake of his words. The anger that had taken him so suddenly slowly ebbs away, and it leaves him feeling oddly hollow. He doesn’t know what reaction he expects from Nikola, isn’t sure he _wants_ to know – surely the man’s tendency towards forgiveness only extends so far – but his curiosity wins out in the end.

Nikola is slowly turning his mug between his hands, focused intently on its movement. His mouth is set in one thin line; it’s his usual problem-solving expression cast in a far more serious light. Such a variation ill-suits him, and Grayson immediately wishes to never see – or be responsible for – it again.

Nikola opens his mouth, falters. Finally, he says, “I understand, but … revenge is not for men like me. Is there no other reason?”

Grayson thinks of prison cells and laboratories, of home and family lost; he thinks of wounds caused by him and because of him, of things he should’ve done and things he still can do. He thinks of Alastair, of Hastings, and the god-damned Lord Chancellor, and that familiar anger begins to simmer in his blood.

“No. There is no other reason.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: nice, I'm making good progress on this lately!
> 
> also me: *buys God of War on release, plays for hours obsessively nearly every day since*
> 
> me: f u c k
> 
>    
> ... God of War is really fucking good you guys
> 
>  
> 
> Lots of talking in this one! Because this fic's unofficial title is _The Author Can't Stop Herself or the Characters Once They Start_.
> 
> Chapter first posted 1 May 2018.

Grayson's second shift on watch is about exciting as his first, which is to say, not at all. There’s even less to keep him occupied than there was the first time round, and as much as he’d like to lull himself into some kind of trance to help pass the time it would rather defeat the purpose of being on guard. Entirely on impulse he takes from the desk drawer a pen and the ledgers and begins flicking through the pages. The contents are predictably uninteresting – details of incoming and outgoing materials, mainly – but towards the back of the second ledger he finds the pages are largely blank. He stops at the sight of them, taps the pen against the paper, thinking. His skills pale greatly in comparison to someone like Nikola, or even Sebastien, whose sketching ability was truly impressive. It’s a way to keep his mind active, though, and it’s better than nothing.

He glances Alastair’s way, gives him a quick look over. Still with his eyes closed, asleep or unconscious Grayson doesn’t know. The tin of ham and the water both sit to one side of the desk, standing out like a beacon, present always just at the corner of his vision. He looks between them, Alastair and their provisions; not for the first time does he consider taking them back out to Nikola and leaving them with him. Instead Grayson pulls out Sebastien’s watch, sets it open in front of him and uncaps the pen.

In the end he’s forced to wake him up. The guilt of inaction grows the more time passes until he can no longer ignore it; Grayson lingers over him for a moment, pondering the best approach. Then he throws all caution to the wind and nudges his shoulder.

It doesn’t garner the reaction he expects. There’s no jolting in place or snapping open of eyes; in fact for a moment nothing happens at all. And then, slowly, Alastair’s forehead creases in a frown, and he cracks open one bleary eye. He looks tired, and entirely unimpressed.

“You need to eat,” is all Grayson says before he heads back to the desk.

“Is that what that smell is,” Alastair – he doesn’t quite ask, his voice is too flat for that, but he seems confused enough for it to be a question. “And here I thought something had died.”

With his back to Alastair Grayson feels completely free to roll his eyes; it’s a petty indulgence he takes far too much enjoyment from. The comment draws out his curiosity, though. Are his senses as enhanced now as they would be in his transformed state? Much as he’d like to know Grayson sets the thought aside for the time being – he might ask Alastair himself, though whether he’ll get an answer out of him is another matter – and instead he takes up the can and his blade.

“I mean it, Grayson. I’d rather starve.”

“While I’m sure there are many who’d rejoice at that development, this isn’t a discussion.”

He digs a chunk of meat out, spears it well on the end of his blade and points it in Alastair’s direction. Alastair eyes it with a particularly venomous type of disgust. Grayson steps close again.

“Now you can either cooperate, or I can force this down your throat.”

It’s strange and disheartening that their relationship has devolved into this, a series of threats and stare-downs. Grayson doesn’t like to think about it, or about the fact that one day Alastair might call him out. He could pretend like he wouldn’t know what he’d do, but he’s fairly certain both of them know the truth.

And that in and of itself is something else he doesn’t want to think about.

… Maybe he should stop thinking entirely.

One day Alastair might call him on it, but it’s not this day. He holds out his hands, and Grayson, grip tight on the hilt, offers the blade out to him, lets him pull the chunk free himself. The look in Alastair’s eyes is murderous, and he never once glances away from Grayson’s gaze.

There isn’t much mischief he can get up to like this, but Grayson watches him throughout regardless. Alastair chews slowly; out of all of them his reaction is the most subdued. He doesn’t really react at all, in fact, and when he’s finished Grayson provides him another.

“Are we done with this nonsense,” Alastair grits out after his third piece, “or do you intend for me to consume more of this … whatever this is?”

Grayson sets the tin down – now a little more than halfway empty – and picks up the water canister.

“Drink.”

It’s a shame there are no more mugs or glasses lying around; Nikola had passed his back, insistent they share upon seeing Grayson try to drink without touching his mouth to the rim. He won’t extend the same courtesy to Alastair – should the man indeed be sick the last thing he wants is it to be passed on to Nikola – but that also means this particular canister is all but written off now, exclusive to Alastair.

At least they have a few spares, he thinks, watching Alastair take small, careful mouthfuls.

It’s no surprise to Grayson when Alastair sets it down beside him rather than handing it back. There’s a challenge in his eyes.

“Well? Do I dare ask what other delights you have in store?”

Grayson frowns but resists the bait. “I need to check your wound again.”

Alastair holds his arms out, bound hands spread apart as far as the rope will allow. “You’ve a captive audience, Grayson.”

“I’m glad your spirits have lifted,” Grayson mutters, though he’s sure it doesn’t go unheard. A little louder, he says, “Hands behind your head.”

Alastair lifts his arms slowly, and Grayson’s confident that, like everything that he’s done lately, it’s with the express purpose of provoking him. He lets the dare pass by; Alastair wedges his hands between his head and the wall and leans back. It’s not especially secure, but Grayson will take it. The position leaves Alastair ridiculously exposed, in more ways than one – and one way in particular he’d definitely rather not think about. His chest is completely open to view and his arms have dragged the blanket so far up the only thing keeping it from falling off him entirely is the way it’s pinned behind him.

Something about the scene discomforts Grayson immensely, sends an odd sinking feeling down into his gut that’s difficult to ignore. He forces himself to focus as he crouches, draws his eyes downwards to where the wound would be –

Where the wound still _is_. The sight of it stops him fast, and he imagines he can feel his mind skipping like broken clockwork as he tries to process what’s before him.

At the very least it looks better than it did the last time he saw it; the flesh has actually pulled closed now, and that more than anything is a reason to be relieved. But where there should be unmarked skin, or even a faded scar, there is instead a vicious red line, not quite a scab but very clearly not yet scar tissue either.

There’s an urge he has then, to reach out and learn the feel of it. That urge is firmly quashed.

Staring at it, the clockwork slips back into place.

“The Blackwater doesn’t heal you.”

They almost bump heads as Alastair looks down. He stares at the wound as though it’s his first time seeing it. There’s something strange about the expression on his face but it’s gone before Grayson has a chance to wonder over it further, replaced with something carefully distant as Alastair settles back against the wall.

“You know the rhetoric, Grayson. How many times did we all hear those same words? It extends the life of _natural men_.” Alastair gives him an indulgent look. “I hardly think I qualify as such. Wouldn’t you agree?”

It’s a surprisingly forward answer, and certainly an unexpected one, so much so that for a moment Grayson’s entirely speechless. Myriad questions run through his mind, enough that he can barely think where to begin. What makes it out first is:

“How? How did you go so many years without detection? We went into battle together, you –” Words fail him temporarily as the weight of the situation and all of its once-possible outcomes hit him. “You could have been compromised any number of times. How did you manage it?”

Alastair’s face remains neutral, but his voice is dry as a desert when he says, “One might suspect you of knowing nothing at all, asking as many questions as you are.”

“You said it yourself: you’re a captive audience. Enlighten me.”

Grayson makes a show of shifting out of his crouch and settling down on the floor, directly opposite Alastair’s position and close enough that he can reach out and be in touching distance, if necessary. Alastair stares at him, and then slowly he pulls his hands back over his head, rests them awkwardly in his lap.

They watch each other for a few quiet, stretching moments, and then Alastair tilts his head.

“You do realise you can’t actually make me answer? Not unless you plan on finally acting on all those lovely threats.”

“No,” he admits, “but one thing I’ve learned over all these years is that men in situations like yours? They like to talk. And I can see it in you already.” Grayson leans in, his voice low. “You’ll want to gloat.”

Alastair narrows his eyes. “Something entirely different to what you yourself are doing right now, presumably.”

The comment doesn’t even come close to rattling Grayson he’s so sure of his own reasoning. He could wait it out – with enough time even the hardiest of men have cracked under the pressure of their own silence – but he doesn’t think he’s patient enough for such a thing.

In fact, he knows he’s not.

“Well, then, Alastair? Or shall I start guessing?”

“I was careful,” Alastair bites out, suddenly. He looks furious to even be speaking. “There’s nothing more exciting to it than that.”

Grayson cocks an eyebrow. “You were careful.”

“Would you not be, if you had such a secret?”

“Even on the battlefield, where anything could happen at any moment, you claim you were in control the entire time?”

Grayson speaks slowly, as though to a child. It probably shouldn’t surprise him then when Alastair huffs, clearly not amused.

“Whatever encounters I took part in, small or large, I had an eye on every angle.” He sits a little straighter, shoulders back and head held high. There’s a certainty in his eyes, and for a moment he once again resembles the man Grayson trusted and respected. “I was good at what I did. How else do you think I came to be Knight Commander?”

Grayson takes a second, then says, “Nepotism.”

Alastair laughs, sudden and loud. It catches them both off guard, it seems, but it doesn’t stop Alastair; his body shakes with mirth even after he’s gone quiet. Grayson wonders if maybe things are worse than he initially believed and that Alastair’s truly delirious, but finally he gets control of himself, wipes his eyes, catches his breath.

“There is that, I suppose,” he allows, mouth still quirked in a smile. Slowly it fades, and he says, “It may be useless to me, Grayson, but I can still _drink_ the Blackwater. If what anyone saw didn’t entirely match the truth … well. Why would I ever inform them otherwise?”

Alastair shrugs, looking for all the world as though they’re speaking about something as bland as the weather, and not his years of deception. Grayson presses his fingers to his forehead and tries to ward off the headache he can already feel building there. How long did this farce go on? He’s sure he could work it out, but does he really _want_ to? Every fond memory, every friendly interaction they ever had is already poisoned; knowing the truth will only make him angrier, and more aware of his own blindness.

All those years: it boggles the mind, and to hear it spoken of so casually … He can’t stand it.

“If you mean to tell me you were never once discovered in all your years of treachery then you’ve lost all sense.”

Alastair cuts him a sharp look. “I made no such claim. There were … a few close calls. They were dealt with accordingly.”

Grayson can feel the questions crawling up his throat – how many of them? Who were they? How did they find out? – but he keeps them down. Whether the truth is worse than his imagination, he doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t need to hear whatever ways Alastair will spin his story; he’ll prove Grayson right about the gloating, and Grayson will wish he never said a word about it.

Alastair is watching him, a look on his face that suggests he knows exactly what path Grayson’s mind is travelling down. That he says nothing is an unexpected kindness, though Grayson isn’t about to commend him for it. It’s as he’s thinking this that he realises how long his silence has lasted, and how obvious it’s been; there’s nothing he can do to change that now, but there are still more questions he can ask, at least while Alastair is feeling agreeable.

“So then Isabeau –”

“She knew nothing,” Alastair cuts him off, immediate and loud.

Grayson has a moment where he considers prying further; considers it, and quickly abandons the notion. There’s a ferocity there that makes a convincing argument, and for the second time that day he finds himself transported back to the laboratory: he can imagine Alastair lying there clear as day, hear the pained intake of his breath, and the words he spoke then play through his mind without prompting.

He loved them as his own blood.

Alastair had spoken then as he did just now, with a tone of utter conviction. As sceptical as Grayson’s blood runs such assuredness is difficult to manufacture; if he could take him at his word then, then surely it would stand to reason he could do so again now.

It would do Grayson’s mind some good to think there might still be some humanity left in him; if it would exist anywhere, it would be through his family. But then, all things considered, perhaps he’s giving him too much credit.

“Very well. How much did your father know of your activities?”

“I wish I knew myself.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Alastair laughs. “Just because you don’t agree with it doesn’t mean it’s not an answer. Come now, you’ve spent enough time in the presence of my father; the only time when his thoughts weren’t completely unknowable was when he was in a rage.”

Grayson’s certain his face will be stuck in a permanent scowl by the end of this, especially if Alastair’s responses continue this trend of being insubstantial and unhelpful. “Surely you don’t mean … He’s the highest-ranking member of our – of the Order, and your father besides –”

“You seem to be stating the obvious, Grayson.”

“– and as many people as you fooled you simply cannot be that naïve. Tell me you don’t truly believe he wasn’t aware of what you were doing.”

“I never said that,” and now it’s Alastair’s turn to speak as though to a child; his reaction earlier makes all the more sense to Grayson now that he’s on the receiving end.

Grayson feels his fingers twitch, resists the urge to curl them into fists. “Then how much do _you think_ he knew?”

“If you wish to speculate then by all means, though we may be here all day.” Alastair pauses, face thoughtful. “Assuming, of course, it is still day?”

“Alastair,” Grayson warns.

“Grayson,” Alastair mimics his tone. “Whatever you may think of me, you have to know – the last thing I wanted was to involve them.  They were the ones I tried hardest to hide it from, in fact. I might have wished he was blind to my actions, but my father is a smart man; if he knew anything of my deeds he discovered it on his own. Gray,” and he leans closer so suddenly it almost makes Grayson flinch, “if you can believe only one thing I’ve said, make it this. I told them nothing.”

He doesn’t realise he’s scoffed aloud until he sees the expression Alastair wears. It brings him no embarrassment or remorse; instead the need to move fills him, a restlessness beneath his skin that is only satisfied when he surges to his feet. It’s too small an area to pace but he does his best, long strides making short circuits, and with every step he takes he can feel Alastair’s eyes on him. Somehow just the knowledge of that makes things worse.

“Grayson?”

He sounds so cautious, so concerned, that whatever remaining civility Grayson had tried to cling to dries up in an instant.

He pulls up short, storms back until he’s looming over his captive.

“Why should I trust a word you’ve said? You’ve so keenly honed your skills at deception that everything might very well have been a lie. This entire conversation would be nothing but a waste of time.”

“What –”

“The only truth in all of this is that you are a liar, and a traitor, a creature that belongs to neither world. And your father? Your father is a misguided old man whose actions compromised the heart of the Order and is the reason for every hardship we faced; he chose a lie over both our lives. He couldn’t even kill you himself.”

Alastair has gone utterly silent. Grayson’s position forces him to tilt his head back almost to the wall behind him for their eyes to meet, and what a fierce look exists there. His jaw is clenched, and while every part of him is still, it is the motionlessness of a predator lying in wait; Grayson imagines he can see the Lycan in him then, a reminder of those few times he goaded the beastly side of Alastair out, though it could just be a trick of the light.

Grayson’s already said far more than he should, but he can still feel more of it waiting, like a vile taste on the back of his tongue.

“What sort of fool would ever believe one of your kind could be redeemed,” and Grayson throws a filthy look his way, “or trusted.”

Other than a quirk of his eyebrow Alastair manages to keep his face neutral. “What sort indeed?”

Grayson drops to one knee, gets as close as he thinks is wise to Alastair, looks him right in the eye. It gives him a secret kind of pleasure that Alastair still needs to tilt his head back to meet the gaze.

“Do you know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Somewhere, however deep inside, I think you wanted someone to discover your secret. Certainly you didn’t mean for it to turn out like this, but for all your talk of keeping things hidden you were getting reckless at the end, weren’t you? I think you wanted someone to see you for what you truly are. You wanted to get caught.”

If his words hit anywhere close to the mark, it’s impossible for him to tell; Alastair watches him with nary a change of expression. He barely blinks in fact, sits there as still as ever, and his face is the very picture of boredom. Only when it’s clear that Grayson’s done does he cock his head to the side, eyes narrowed.

“Are you finished? I can hardly remember the last time I heard you say so much.” He says it with the tone of an insult, and it’s difficult not to take it at such. Sounding as bored as he looks, Alastair continues, “Believe whatever you want, Grayson. It’s clear now that you’ll trust nothing I say regardless of its actual truth.”

Grayson scoffs. “And you act as though I’m the one at fault here.”

It seems Alastair is done with him, however; his reply is to only stare at Grayson, expression completely blank and mouth shut tight. Grayson shakes his head and rises to his feet again. He too is finished with this conversation. Much as he would like to leave the room and its infuriating occupant behind Grayson is even less inclined to leave him alone than he was before, so it’s with a grim sort of acceptance that he settles back into his chair.

He closes Sebastien’s watch with a snap and tries not to think about the hours of his shift that remain.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be heading into some tag changes with this chapter and the next! So you know what that means! You guessed it: stuff's happening!
> 
> Chapter first posted 15 May 2018.

If the mood between them had been tense before their discussion, it’s nothing compared to the way things are following it. Alastair turns quiet, more so than he was before: he speaks only when there’s no other avenue available to him, and even then it’s in the shortest, simplest terms possible. The silence would be a blessing in Grayson’s mind if it were not for the unsettling feeling it instils in him. While Alastair may be silent that doesn’t mean he’s saying nothing; where before he only seemed to sleep now it’s as though he’s always watching, eyes roving over every inch of his surroundings, almost constantly tracking the movement of whoever’s in his line of vision at the time. The shift in behaviour is as worrying as it is noticeable, and Grayson can only watch him back and wonder what he’s up to.

Despite his apprehension nothing comes of it; either Grayson is more paranoid than even he thought or Alastair has far greater patience than he ever would’ve given him credit for. They have but one close call when he realises the canister he’d allowed Alastair to drink from is missing, and for one vivid moment his head is filled with images of himself and Nikola, caught off guard and being bludgeoned to death with the most unlikely – and embarrassing – of objects. It comes to a quick end when he discovers it by Alastair’s side, exactly where the man had left it after Grayson had passed it over. He tries not to think about all the ways his carelessness could have blown up in their faces as he snatches it back into safe keeping.

When his mind is not occupied by thoughts of their potential murder Grayson focuses on ensuring the relative health of his companions. It’s a strange thing to be responsible for the wellbeing of someone he’s tried to kill; stranger still to witness the healing process almost as it happens. The rest of Alastair’s wounds – nearly all of them caused by Grayson’s hand – have scarred over, pale lines across his cheek and his shoulder close to invisible already. His main injury is slower to show signs of change, appearing as raw and grisly as the last time he inspected it, but Alastair’s ever-watchful eyes are clear, and his breathing is steady. Grayson can only hope that means whatever illness lay within him has passed.

They’ll soon find out otherwise, he supposes.

While Alastair’s injuries and their improvements – or lack thereof – could more or less be tracked by sight, that which plagues Nikola is somewhat more difficult to document. Beyond his more obvious signs of pain there’s little that Grayson knows to look for; whenever asked Nikola insists that he’s coping just fine, _thank you for your concern, Sir Galahad_ , and it seems as though he hasn’t resorted to the laudanum, the bottle still sealed when Grayson checks it.

Not that he’s prying, or that he doesn’t trust him to take care of himself, but Nikola is the sort of man to not let others see him suffer, and Grayson wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to hide it from him, too. The reality of Nikola’s injury is already worrying enough; the thought of him needlessly putting on a brave face only makes it worse.

So while he lets Nikola have his space, lets him care for himself as he sees fit, Grayson ends up watching him, too. He just hopes his vigilance is nowhere near as hostile as Alastair’s.

After enough hours have passed to be deemed practical Grayson listens again to his breathing, aware even as he does so that he’s no more knowledgeable than he was the last time. Still, it makes him feel less useless, less like he has absolutely no control over the situation, and if nothing else that’s good for his mind. If Nikola notices he’s kind enough not to comment on it, lets him listen and press and question to his heart’s content, and Grayson is more thankful for that than he could ever put into words.

They share a meal afterwards, nearly the last of the first tin of food he opened; it’s as unimpressive as ever, and they eat in silence. These moments, the time between one of their watches ending and the next one beginning, he’s found to be unfathomably odd. There’s a tension that fills the air, a palpable atmosphere of the unknown, a feeling that at any moment everything could go wrong and chaos descend.

… Or maybe he’s more tired than he realised. Grayson blows out a long breath, drags a hand over his face. When he opens his eyes again Nikola is looking at him.

“This has been quite the ordeal, has it not, Sir Galahad?”

“That’s certainly one way of putting it.”

“We have been here a while now, yes?”

Grayson huffs a laugh, entirely unamused. “Not as long as it feels.”

He fiddles with the pocket watch with one hand, slowly rotating the edge against his thigh. The last he’d checked it had been some time after one AM; that was hours ago now, however, and the thought of looking again fills him with a strange feeling of inevitability, one he’d rather avoid. His best estimate would put their being here somewhere past twenty-four hours, and isn’t that a disheartening thought?

He wasn’t lying; it feels as though it’s been twice that long.

Nikola makes a noise, something between a sigh and a groan, drawing Grayson’s attention back to him.

Exasperated is perhaps the best way to describe his expression. “What I am trying – and it would seem, failing – to say is … I am more than capable of taking an additional watch, should you require more rest.”

It catches him so off-guard that he hardly knows how to react. He’s no stranger to Nikola’s acts of kindness but he must look truly poorly for him to offer so abruptly. It would make him smile on any other occasion; this time, for all the fondness he feels, he doesn’t have the energy. Despite – or perhaps because of – his straight face Nikola’s eyes grow wider, and he raises his hands as though to pacify him.

“There is no shame in it, my friend –”

“Nikola –”

“You have done more than enough –”

“Nikola, please,” Grayson finally says, loud enough that Nikola halts. “Your concern is appreciated, but entirely unwarranted. Things are not so bad that you need treat me with kid gloves.” He nods, as much to himself as to Nikola. “We shall continue on as we have been.”

Nikola is quiet, his expression thoughtful. His voice is soft when he speaks: “Well … hopefully not _exactly_ as we have been.”

Grayson does quirk an eyebrow at that, and Nikola gives the smallest of smiles.

“Less of that ham would be very welcome.”

It draws a gruff laugh out of him, and he raises his cup to Nikola in salute. These gestures of Nikola’s, small though they may be, carry with them an immense weight; no matter how many times he’s graced with the man’s kindness, or bears witness to it, he never fails to be touched by it. It’s something precious, and he stores away the memory of every instance he’s witnessed. Such moments are worth preserving.

He can only hope they last, along with Nikola’s kindness.

Grayson sinks into his chair – as much as he can, with how uncomfortable it is – and closes his eyes. He can allow himself this, if only for the briefest amount of time. It’s his turn next on watch anyway, and he hardly thinks Nikola will hold it against him if he takes a moment to centre himself, to let his body relax and absorb some warmth, to sit and simply _breathe_. In fact, he knows Nikola would encourage more of it.

Speaking of warmth, the thought comes to him suddenly that he’d meant to check the condition of the fire. The last time he’d loaded up the stove had been just after the end of his previous shift, so more than a few hours have passed; the fact that he hasn’t broken out in shivers suggests things aren’t too bad, but he’d rather have everything in order before he goes back on watch.

The remnants, he finds, are still clinging to life, embers glowing brightly in the dim stretch of the room. This close the heat is far more affecting, reaching out to embrace him, settling into his clothes, and when he opens the grate to add more fuel he feels it like he would a touch. His cheeks will be flushed soon enough, he knows. The joys of a fair complexion. Though Isabeau always had it worse, didn’t she, even after she became a full-fledged knight; get her angry enough and –

The grate shuts with a clang.

It’s like picking at a scab, knowing it’ll only make things worse but being unable to keep from doing it. He can’t think of her, not how she was or how she’d been after everything fell apart, can’t afford to but now he _can’t stop_. He shuts his eyes, breathes in deep to try to find some calm but all he can see is her face, furious and betrayed and accusing. He’ll carry that look with him for as long as he lives, he thinks; better that than the way she’d looked the last time he saw her, the way she’d called his name as he went over the side of Westminster.

Where was she now? What had the Lord Chancellor told her about her brother’s fate, and Grayson’s part in it?

Regret is a particularly bitter pill, one he has no choice but to swallow. Even so, he finds himself thinking back to words he once said in the council chambers: that he would act no differently if he had the chance to do things again. His conviction no longer feels so unwavering.

Instinct – and the thought of Isabeau – sees him cast his gaze Alastair’s way, and it’s a good thing he does. It stops him in his tracks, the sight of Alastair still as a statue, eyes narrowed in his concentration, head titled ever so slightly towards the outside wall. Something about the image pins Grayson to the spot, time seeming to stretch to match their stillness. Ever since he started thinking of Alastair as a predator he hasn’t been able to stop; even now his thoughts run towards the more fanciful, once again conjuring up the idea of a creature lying in wait, poised for the attack. Tacky as it is, it seems an apt comparison.

Between one breath and the next Alastair’s eyes snap to his, and Grayson feels the attention like an actual weight. It’s a tiny motion, barely there, but when Alastair cocks his head towards the wall Grayson catches it all the same.

In an instant he’s pressed as close as he can get against the wall, ears straining for the slightest sound, an urgency he hasn’t felt since first setting foot in this building seizing him. His heart shouldn’t be racing but it is, and for a few long moments that and his own breathing is all he hears, until –

_There_ , soft but growing closer and then it’s entirely unmistakable: a carriage drawing near. It stops some distance away, though how far he doesn’t know, and as silence descends once more he waits. A carriage could mean any number of things, most of them unpleasant, but it’s the potential for chaos it creates that troubles him the most. Whether it’s bringing people in or carrying them out, it means another chance of discovery, one more check to see if their luck holds.

It’s as he’s thinking this that he catches what is undeniably the sound of footsteps rapidly closing in. More than one person certainly, possibly more than two or three, and it’s the fact that they’re trying to conceal the sound of their boots on the stonework that has him moving.

“Grayson!” Alastair hisses, and there’s movement in his peripheral vision from Alastair’s direction, but Grayson’s already passing him by.

Nikola looks at him in surprise when he kneels by his side, and Grayson quickly raises a finger to his own mouth before pointing to the door nearest them. It’s easy to see the moment understanding dawns on him, eyes going wide, body twisting around as though he can spot them already; Grayson grips his arm and draws his attention back. They’re running short on time.

He pulls his revolver from its holster and holds it out, trying not to feel too guilty at the expression he earns from Nikola in return.

“Only if it’s absolutely necessary,” Grayson says, and hopes he looks more reassuring than he feels. “You’re still with me?”

Nikola swallows hard but nods, and with one last squeeze of his arm Grayson slips away, moves to a position behind one of the benches, concealed but still able to see the entrance. He wishes he could spare a moment to offer some support, make sure Nikola knows – and is comfortable with – what he’s doing, but leaving both of them exposed and distracted is too great a risk. Besides, he reminds himself, Nikola has a will stronger than steel, and has probably spent as much time around these weapons as the knights themselves. He’ll be fine.

He has to be.

There are shadows moving past the doorway now. If only they’d been able to padlock the door from the inside, but there’s no point dwelling on such regrets. Grayson reaches back and rests his hand on the hilt of his blade. He too would like to use it only if absolutely necessary, but by now he knows what he’s willing to do to survive, and if him being the one to do it means that Nikola doesn’t have to, well. He can live with that.

All is silent. Grayson is well acquainted with this kind of quiet, as well as the carnage that typically follows it. It also means he hears it when the second whoever’s come to visit starts fiddling with the lock.

His boot nudges a scrap of wood as he adjusts positions and he quickly palms it, glances from the door to Nikola’s spot and everything in between. An idea is taking root.

With a scrape and a _clunk_ the lock finally turns, and after a moment that seems to drag forever someone pushes the door open. Light spills inside, reaching only a little ways into the entrance; either they’ve come prepared or someone’s ventured close enough to both notice and fix the light outside the warehouse. He rather hopes it’s the latter; darkness is their friend in here, and the longer it lasts the better their odds and opportunities are.

Someone’s coming in, a man judging by their build, though he can’t make out any details of their face. Their clothes are plain, which likely rules out knights, Her Majesty’s guards, and police alike, though he supposes there’s no guarantee of that. There’s a holster peeking out from under their coat and what looks to be a blade strapped to their hip, but the fact that they’re not brandishing either of them is curious. Grayson watches closely as the man moves further in, watches him pause and look around; it’s when his attention falls on the partition wall that conceals Nikola that Grayson acts.

The scrap of wood makes a skittering sound as he tosses it out into the open. It works just as he’d expected it to, the man’s attention immediately drawn in the direction of the noise, and Grayson moves the same time he does, quickly and as silently as he can until he’s looped behind him.

Speed is key and Grayson strikes fast, wrapping one arm around the man’s neck and using the other to support his grip. The man flails, reaches back and claws at his hands but Grayson just holds him tighter, ignores his gasps and starts walking him back, deeper into the room. If he’s quick he can get him far enough into the dark to finish the job and be done with him –

The blow comes as the man is finally starting to go slack in his grip, what feels at first like simple pressure against his side erupting into something blinding as the man _twists_ and pulls and oh, Grayson realises, he’s been stabbed.

The man breaks free as Grayson drops one hand to press over the wound, gritting his teeth against the pain as blood begins rushing out against his palm. Rookie mistake, he should know better. There isn’t much time – the man is braced against one of the benches, desperately trying to get his breath back – and he needs to act. The blade is still in the man’s hand but that’s okay, Grayson thinks, reaching for his Blackwater; he has one too.

He’s barely pulled the vial free when something crashes into him.

He hits the ground hard, his side exploding in agony as he lands mostly on the injured area. Whoever tackled him follows not far behind, his chest cushioning much of their fall, knocking the wind right out of him, and between the injury and the surprise he finds himself pinned. For a moment he doesn’t even register the pawing fingers at his collar – trying to strangle him? No, that’s not right – until something _drags_ through his hair, scrapes the back of his head –

That’s the Blackwater vial, _shit_ –

He lunges for the hand with a breathless roar but it’s gone, soaring over his assailant’s shoulder; he hears it land with a heavy _clunk_ somewhere out of sight. Grayson snarls, grabs for their shoulder and flips them onto floor, moves with the momentum and rolls on top. He uses his weight to hold them down and reaches for his knife.

Something crashes into him _again_ , goddamn it all, the man’s recovered enough to come at him once more. At least he doesn’t cop another knife to the side, but now he’s on the floor again and there are two people facing him down. At least they haven’t noticed Nikola, he thinks, eyes briefing darting to his spot; he’s pressed himself into the corner and is staring out at the cluster of their group with wide eyes, revolver held at the ready but aimed nowhere near any of them. Immediately and without hesitation Grayson knows that he’ll take whatever comes his way if it keeps their attention away from his friend.

He scrambles out of the way of a stomp aimed at his head, catches the next one with both hands and twists hard, yanking with all his strength the second he hears their – surprisingly high pitched – gasp of pain. They – she? – hits the floor with all the elegance of a drunken street brawl, heading cracking sharply against the ground, and before he can think about how long she’ll be down he’s dodging a knife swiping right past his face.

The second swipe misses him by a hair’s breadth as he staggers to his feet; he feels the air rush by him as the attack passes. He isn’t so lucky on the next one, catching a slash across the arm, and though his coat protects him from most of the blow he still finds himself grabbing for the wound. He’s about as vertical as he’s going to get, hunched over to protect his injured side; his head is swimming and he’s starting to feel cold, but so long as there’s someone between him and his vial he can only endure.

Lucky for Grayson the man is impatient – that or he thinks he’s strong enough to take him – because he rushes, blade angled right at his exposed side. He moves fast, but Grayson’s faster, twisting with the blow and using the man’s own momentum to spin them and throw him to the ground. Grip loosened by the fall it’s easy for him to kick the knife out of the man’s hand and then he’s on him, knee dug in his chest and hands around his neck.

His fingers feel clumsy, faraway, like they’ve got no strength to hold a grasp, and with the man struggling like he is it’s a fight all its’ own just to keep him down. The desperate hands that claw at his fingers and face are ignorable, if not avoidable; Grayson sets his jaw and toughs it out, and when the man’s struggles briefly intensify he just digs his knee in harder.

It won’t be long now. His protests are growing weaker, coming slower and barely reaching his face. It won’t be long –

“Wait!”

Grayson’s head snaps up and straight to the source of the noise. It’s Nikola, still staring at them only with real, tangible fear in his eyes now, his eyes that keep darting between them and the door, and he’s no longer aiming away but instead right at the two of them, and _what does he keep looking at_ –

Someone punches Grayson right in the jaw.

He blames the blood loss for the way it hits him entirely unaware; lying there, flat on his back next to his spluttering attacker, he thinks his embarrassment will ask a higher price.

At least it gives him a good view as whoever Nikola was looking at comes to a stop, standing right over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp* What's this? Someone slipped an action scene into my quiet, slow, (hopefully) character-driven fic? What is this madness?!
> 
> ... rare as it'll be, this fic _will_ have some faster moments, I promise. I just generally think I'm trash at writing fights, so I tend to avoid them. But I guess you have to try something different every now and then, right?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter this time round, but there's the return of a familiar face to make up for it, so ... it evens out? I hope?
> 
> Chapter first posted 29 May 2018.

“Fancy meeting you here, knight.”

Devi Nayar looks down at him, one hand on her hip and a stoic expression on her face. Something about the posture makes Grayson think of a long-suffering teacher watching a particularly troublesome student; while her appearance is serious there’s something different in her eyes, glinting brightly as they are in the light of the lantern she carries. Distantly, he thinks it might be amusement.

“Devi,” he says, or at least tries to. It devolves into a cut-off groan of pain somewhere after the first letter and he has to snap his jaw shut to keep any other embarrassing noises from escaping. He should probably try to get up, but his limbs feel so heavy, and when the fire in his side chooses that moment to reignite he decides he actually likes where he is right now, thanks very much.

Things aren’t so bad yet that he can’t keep his eyes open, so he quite clearly sees the look Devi casts over him, how her gaze moves from where he’s now gripping his side, up to his neck. She frowns then, starts glancing around the room, and a second later disappears from his sight entirely, taking the light with her; there’s the sound of rummaging from not too far away and then someone steps into his view, movements slow and deliberate as they come to hover by his side.

“Lay still, my friend.”

Nikola. Devi’s lantern casts its light on his worried face as she returns, and since it’s about all he can do, Grayson watches them. He sees the way Nikola turns his concern Devi’s way, and how she gently touches his arm in answer. It’s unexpected, the intimacy they show each other, and it raises all sorts of questions in Grayson’s mind. Before he can ponder any of them Devi is moving closer, crouching down by his shoulder; there’s something in her hand, and she holds it out so he can see. The Blackwater vial.

“Can you manage this yourself?” she asks.

There’s nothing cruel about the way she says it, no judgement in her voice that he can hear, but he takes it as a challenge nonetheless. With the hand unoccupied with his wound he takes it from her, pops the lid, and tries not to spill the contents all over himself as he drinks.

The elixir works its magic quickly, knitting together the severed tissue, leaving not a single mark behind and filling him with the energy of a life renewed. Nikola smiles at him as he sits up, looking more relieved with every passing moment; he hands over the revolver with obvious enthusiasm, much to the amusement of Devi, who’s now watching him as closely as he’d been watching her. She seems to have returned to the mood she was in when he first saw her, eyeing him critically and with a little something else.

“That’s certainly one way to end a night, bleeding out in a warehouse.”

Grayson fights off a long-suffering sigh. “Good to see you too, Devi.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Yes, _definitely_ the same mood as before; Grayson can see the glint in her eyes. “That may be the worst I’ve ever seen you.”

“Lakshmi could tell you a story or two. Or even Nikola here.”

Nikola looks entirely unamused by the suggestion, and he and Devi exchange a glance that’s full of shared understanding. She opens her mouth to say something when from behind them someone calls her name, snapping all three out of their circle of camaraderie.

It’s not as though he’d forgotten about the two from earlier – how could he, when they’d made such a violent first impression – but they’d mostly fallen into the background in the wake of Devi’s appearance and his need of healing. Now, as Devi steps towards them, he pays them closer attention. It’s a man and a woman, as he’d predicted, though young in a way he hadn’t; their wariness is plain to see, from the way they hold themselves still ready for a fight to how their eyes keep darting back to where he stands.

“What is this, Devi?” the woman asks. She doesn’t bother keeping her voice down.

Devi places herself between them, takes the woman’s arm and says, “Right now, all I need to know is if you trust me.”

“Of course, but this –”

“There’ll be more time to explain later. Believe me when I tell you that he is with us. Can you do that?”

The two young rebels peer at him around Devi, the woman looking particularly dubious, but both nod their assent. Then they move, the man to the entryway and the woman leaving the building entirely, and Devi comes to stand by him as they watch them go.

“New recruits?” he asks.

Devi shoots him a look. “What makes you say that?”

“There’s a certain kind of fire that only the young and inexperienced possess.” It sounds like something Sebastien would say, possibly even directed at him, and Grayson finds himself smiling, though it’s small, and not entirely happy. “I’ve seen more of it than you’d think.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

The way that Devi looks at him then is nothing new. It’s something that he and every other knight in history has encountered, and they’d all, in their own time, come to recognise and tolerate – if not accept – this particular expression. On some citizens it began as a childlike excitement; on others it was a kind of nationalistic pride; but inevitably the underlying curiosity that existed in all their minds would turn to wariness, and occasionally the wariness to outright hostility. For those of their Order who most cared about keeping the people of the world safe it’s a particularly bitter pill, and Grayson wonders if such cynicism was what the Lord Chancellor was trying to avoid when he made Grayson his scapegoat. For the first time since all this happened he thinks that maybe he understands some of the man’s reasoning.

Not that he agrees with it, or would ever admit to such a thing. Not until well after all of this is resolved, at least.

Devi’s no longer looking at him, though she still wears that same well-known expression. He can bear that look a little better from her, funnily enough; at least he’d given her a reason to be suspicious of him. Though he can’t help but be curious about how much of it stems from her being part of the Rebellion.

He lets the thoughts slip away, pulls back into the present to find Devi looking the two of them over, the kind of scrutiny in her gaze that suggests she’s cataloguing everything she sees. As her attention moves away she picks up one of the tins of food still lying about the counter, and Grayson tries to imagine what it all must look like to her.

“I admit, I hadn’t expected to find the two of you here,” she says, turning the tin in her hands.

The comment snags Grayson’s interest, a sudden uncertainty sinking into him just as the implications of her words do. He looks between the two, hoping he doesn’t look as off-kilter as he feels when he catches Nikola’s eye.

“Then … Nikola, you didn’t …?”

Nikola clasps his hands together, holds them tight like he’s trying not to wring them; Grayson can still see the tiny motions that threaten to break loose. He worries for a moment that something might be seriously wrong when Nikola breaks his gaze, looks from him to Devi then back again.

When he finally speaks it’s in a soft voice. “I had hoped if we waited long enough someone would come.”

Understanding comes in a slow, sickening wave, presumptions he’d made about Devi’s being there coming apart at the seams. She’d found them through some other means; Nikola, his clever friend, hadn’t contacted her at all. They had spoken of it briefly, and only once in all their conversations, something important that had fallen to the wayside partly under the weight of other concerns, but also his own distractions; he had honestly assumed that Nikola had taken on that responsibility, despite their obvious lack of resources and never checking in with him. It’s a stupid mistake, careless and dangerous, the kind of oversight that gets people killed, and it’s a miracle that none of it blew up right in their faces. He should’ve known better.

“It was a gamble,” Devi’s saying, “but I suppose you had little choice.”

Grayson turns on her. “If you weren’t contacted, what made you check this place?”

He knows how it must sound, these questions, how it must make him appear. He doesn’t care. Devi’s already looking at him the exact way he expects; her opinion of him isn’t likely to change. He might as well ask.

She takes a moment to consider him. He stands there and lets her, knowing no action of his will change her mood.

Finally, she speaks. “This is one of our safe houses, yes, but we maintain enough of a presence here that our use of the building doesn’t become suspicious.” She gestures with her head towards the stove, her expression equal parts amused and satisfied. “You didn’t think all that smoke would go unnoticed? Our agent passed along word, and here we are.”

Grayson eyes the stove. It’s going to bother him for a while, he knows; that he could allow such a mistake to happen and not be punished for it is entirely bewildering, and he can’t help but feel he’s cheated fate out of her prize.

… Something so _simple_ , something any passing citizen or attentive worker could have seen, yet it worked out in their favour …

If he doesn’t stop thinking about it now then he never will, so Grayson forces himself to let it go, focuses on everything but that. He clearly hasn’t broken from his ways as a Knight just yet, as he finds himself absentmindedly taking note of this aspect of the Rebellion’s workings, with more questions springing up in the wake of every new piece of information. Not that it does him any good now, but he suspects it’ll take a while for this particular habit to die.

“The Rebellion’s roots run deep,” he says quietly, still halfway inside his own thoughts.

Devi makes a noise at that; when he looks her way she’s got an eyebrow raised at him, her arms folded over her chest.

“They’re your roots too now, unless you’re having second thoughts.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I was.”

It comes out maybe a little harsher than he intends, and he can’t really account for the expression on his face; if perhaps he looks a little more aggressive than he means to, well. It’ll hardly be the first time such an accusation’s been laid against him. Devi’s not exactly the picture of friendship herself, eying him the way she is, every word laced with insinuation. With where she’s coming from he can hardly blame her, but the suspicion stings, and he’s not going to pretend he enjoys being on the receiving end of it. They stare each other down.

He’s not going to be the first to blink. He can promise that.

“Devi, please.”

Nikola’s voice cuts through their conflict, and Devi looks away. Removed from their attention Grayson watches them, still curious as to the nature of their relationship. Whatever it is, they know each other well enough to communicate without words; in the space of just a few seconds his expression seems to have had its intended effect, as Devi purses her lips and drops her arms to her sides.

“Very well. You can explain how this all came to be once we’re on our way.” She pauses, and when she looks at him again she smiles, small but genuine. “I’m sure my queen will be pleased to see you both.”

She makes as if to leave. Nikola immediately turns to him, gaze darting to the office doorway before returning to Grayson; his eyes are wide, and the sudden shift towards uncertainty is worrying. There’s no time to linger on what to say, much as he might want to – he’s already left it longer than he should have. He reaches out and grabs Devi’s arm.

“Wait,” he says, and releases her just as quick. “There’s one more thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! It's Devi! I love Devi! Even more so, I love (finally) having another character to work with! And it's not another dude! Like a breath of fresh air!
> 
> Really though, I love this game's female characters, and I hope I can do them some justice.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy E3 week everyone! I hope you all saw at least one game that caught your interest. I know I did. Meanwhile I haven't had a full, uninterrupted night's sleep since EA's conference because of when these things go to air over here I am so tired why do I do this to myself every year
> 
> Chapter first posted 12 June 2018.

The three of them stand at the entrance to the office, a loose triangle with no one particularly inside – Nikola hangs back the most, while Grayson positions himself the furthest ahead of all of them, quietly but deliberately placing his body in the line of most fire – and in silence they stare into the room.

Alastair stares right back at them, utterly unimpressed.

There’s a long moment where nothing happens, and then Devi grabs him by one of the lapels of his coat and _pushes_ , walks him with some surprising force back and out of sight of the door. By the time he digs his heels in he’s almost against the wall and Devi’s glaring at him, fist tight in the material of his clothes and her teeth bared.

“What is this?”

“He’s –”

Nikola, who had followed them over and now hovers somewhere around the peripheral of Grayson’s vision, suddenly cuts himself off. He refuses to say any more, even when Devi turns around expectantly; he only meets Grayson’s gaze and waits.

He feels, inexplicably, her grip tighten further, but this isn’t the time to be impressed with her strength. She’s already this volatile: what would she do if she knew …?

“He tried to stop our escape,” Grayson finally says, waiting until she’s looking at him once more before he speaks again. “He’s a Lycan, he may have some knowledge of their operations.”

Devi stares at him, and the way her face goes carefully blank is perhaps more concerning than the anger she’d been showing only moments before.

“You want to bring him with us.”

Her voice is flat and entirely disbelieving and everything about her, from the way that she speaks to how she’s looking at him, suggests she thinks that maybe he’s legitimately lost his mind. He can’t say he blames her. In any other scenario he’d probably agree with her, in fact – would probably agree with her in _this_ scenario too, if such a thing wouldn’t force him to call into question his every action up to this point – but right now admitting so would undermine his efforts, and he _needs_ this. He can deal with everything that comes after, make his excuses and hope he’s understood, but for him to even get to that point he needs for Devi to let him have his way.

“He could prove useful. I’ll take responsibility for him,” he adds when Devi scoffs at him, grabbing her wrist in return when she finally releases her grip on his coat. She glares at him, and though they’ve already done this dance once tonight somebody’s playing their song again; he didn’t lose their little stare down then, and he’s not going to now, either.

There’s no interruption this time, and while Grayson’s certain the two of them could stand there all night Devi’s the one who pulls her hand free. With a muttered curse she stalks away and out the door. He doesn’t know if he should count that as a win, though he’ll probably learn once she returns. He looks to Nikola, the thought of gauging his condition through all this on his mind, only to find himself already being observed.

Nikola’s watching him with what might be the most guarded expression Grayson has ever seen on him. It’s strange to be on the receiving end of such a look from him of all people: strange, and more than a little troubling. Something of that must show on his face, as Nikola steps closer to him, casting a look behind him and towards the office before leaning in.

“Sir Galahad, please, just … take care.”

Grayson frowns. “Nikola –”

Devi sweeps back into the building, her reappearance cutting off whatever he’d meant to say next. There’s some manner of cloth held in one of her hands, dark material that he can’t quite make out, and then she’s throwing it at his chest and he almost fumbles it in his surprise. It’s soft against his fingers as he handles it, separate items distinguishing themselves as he examines them –

One piece long but thin, the other much larger with a slit the bottom. A makeshift gag and a hood, respectively.

There’s an uneasy feeling sinking into his gut as he looks up at Devi. Seeing her now, with the look she has on her face and the tools of her trade in his hands, Grayson wonders if she was the one with the most resolve all along.

She nods her head towards the office.

“We don’t have all night.”

He clenches the material tight in one fist, resists the urge to look down at it again or anywhere other than at her. If this is what it takes, then he’ll have to abide it; if nothing else it’s probably the least painful thing she could’ve asked of him.

Alastair’s clearly been listening in, as his eyes immediately lock on to Grayson’s as he comes around the corner and into the room. He makes no attempt to hide the items and so he knows the exact moment Alastair spots them, sees the way his gaze lingers there, and when he looks again at Grayson there’s something anxious to the lines of his face.

“Grayson, listen to me –”

“Quiet,” he says, and drops to one knee in front of him. He takes the gag in both hands, tugs it gently to check its strength, more a distraction than any real test: Alastair’s hands are twisting in their bonds, and the look on his face is only getting more desperate.

He speaks again, fast and hushed, “You know what will happen if you do this –”

“This isn’t a discussion.”

“Don’t –”

He does it quickly and with as little thought as possible, forcing the material between Alastair’s teeth and then swiftly tying it off at the back of his head. It doesn’t have to be a masterwork of knots, so long as it’s secure and will hold for a little while. He can’t imagine they’ll be travelling very far, or for very long – at least, he hopes not. They are in Devi’s hands, however, and he admittedly knows little about the rebellion’s operation; there isn’t a lot he can challenge before he wears out any goodwill he’s earned.

Alastair, though; Alastair’s looking at him with such an expression of rage and betrayal that even despite everything they’ve been through recently Grayson feels himself affected. It’s a hollow promise to make, all things considered, but he swears it to himself regardless: if he’s going to make Alastair suffer this indignity it won’t be for any longer than it has to.

He pulls the hood over his head a second later, in equal parts because he must, and so he no longer has to have that look directed his way.

“Good. The carriage isn’t far,” Devi says, and he glances back at her. She nods towards the exit.

It dawns on him then that she isn’t going to help, because of course she wouldn’t – why would she? – and while Nikola has been kind in the past it’s not fair to keep expecting it of him. The hood might make the trip a little more difficult than it’d otherwise be, but that’s not so much of a concern for him; it’s the idea of parading Alastair past them, restrained, blinded, and mostly naked, that doesn’t sit well with him.

He looks away, turns his attention again to Alastair.

“There’s no time for hesitation, knight.”

“A moment, Devi,” he calls back. He needs, just briefly, to think.

The knots come loose with a small amount of effort – the ties around his wrists he leaves untouched, of course – and while his mind conjures up myriad scenarios of Alastair taking this as an opportunity to seize his freedom, nothing actually happens. He tries not to think about how much that disturbs him as he pulls the blanket around Alastair’s shoulders, brings his hands up so he can hold it in place, and only once he has his grip does Grayson begin getting him to his feet.

It feels as though every eye in the building is on them. He guides Alastair with a hand on his back and it’s just as slow going as he’d thought it’d be, though short of dragging him along there’s nothing he can do to change that. Devi doesn’t move from where she stood before, and Nikola lingers not far behind her; when he sees them approach he steps forward, an intent look on his face – bless his heart – but then Devi throws out an arm and he comes to a quick stop. It’s hard to fault her for it, though the thought of it alone makes him grit his teeth. It’s easier to pretend he didn’t see.

Outside and the wind bites into him immediately, the dark of the night wrapping itself around him. The young rebel woman from before halts her patrol and turns her attention to the two of them; her eyes linger on them, too, though there’s more curiosity than suspicion there. Grayson ignores her, brings them to a stop as he tries to spot the carriage. Devi had said it wasn’t far, but that doesn’t mean much –

“This way,” a voice says, and then someone brushes past him from behind. It’s the young rebel man, pushing forward to take the lead, and when Grayson glances back he sees Devi lingering in the doorway. Waiting for him.

The slow walk resumes.

It’s less stressful than their first trip through these yards, at least, though it really ought to be, with the presence of multiple armed Rebels and an escape route in reach. Only when they come around the corner of the building does the carriage reveal itself, parked far enough inside the gate to not be immediately noticeable from the outside. The horse whinnies gently at their approach, and the man he’d been following hurries on, headed directly for the driver waiting nearby.

Grayson stops them a respectable distance away and turns to look for Devi – he’ll go no further without her input – and finds instead the convoy that is their group, Devi trailing slightly behind Nikola, and the young woman covering them all from the very rear.

They must look ridiculous.

He moves his hand from Alastair’s back to his right arm, not so much holding him in place as letting him know they’ll be stationary for the time being. Then he waits. She’s not too far away now, it won’t be long –

Devi passes him by entirely, instead approaching the driver who in an instant snaps to attention.

“Change of plans,” she seems to be saying, “we’ll have to take the scenic route –”

“Devi,” he calls out, no qualms about cutting her off.

She gives him an evaluating look, and then opens the door to the carriage.

“One of my people will help you get him inside, if you need it.”

“Would you care at all to explain our path forward?”

“Thanks to your friend not all of us can make the trip. Mary!”

The young woman steps forward.

Grayson’s mind is busy tripping over Devi’s words. “ _What_ –”

“Take Nikola along the alternate path, and _be careful_ ,” she continues, entirely unconcerned with him. The woman’s nodding, looking ready to move, and it’s then that Grayson drops his hold on Alastair and barges into their conversation.

“Devi!”

The woman is looking at them as though she expects them to come to blows – that, or she’s waiting for Devi to knock him down a peg for his insubordination – but despite his own high spirits Devi seems as calm as one can be. All she does, in fact, is cock her head at the waiting rebel, sending her scurrying.

Then she sizes him up.

“This is how it goes, knight. We’re already taking a risk travelling with as many as we have. The carriage seats four. Your Lycan has to take one, and I won’t let him go unguarded: two at minimum, not including yourself or Nikola. There, already, the carriage is filled. Unless you give up _your_ seat, but are you really willing to let him travel without your supervision?”

She doesn’t give him time to answer, though he thinks he knows what he would’ve said if she had.

“So that leaves me, then. Either I return to our base with Nikola, and you need to trust a pair of strangers to ensure your safety, or I go with you, and you have to relinquish Nikola’s protection to one of my people.”

Grayson grits his teeth. “Either way I have to take your word on their reliability.”

“True,” she says, and shrugs a shoulder like she hasn’t got a care in the world, “but it’s my carriage you’re riding in, and our options are limited.”

History will show he’s never responded well to being led by the nose, nor does he particularly enjoy it. The experience is even more unpleasant when it comes from someone he considers an ally, though he expects he has more familiarity with that particular oddity than most. And here he thought not being involved in the conversation was bad: discovering that it’s because the decision’s already been made is even worse. Every argument he can think to make, she’s already addressed, and while she’s not wrong about the carriage ultimately being hers, having her authority thrown at him is an entirely new occurrence.

He wouldn’t mind falling in line so much if it didn’t feel like he was losing out on something important.

“You’re willing to go along with this, Nikola?”

Grayson turns when he receives no response, and for a moment his attention is caught by the sight of the three rebels, standing around them in a loose semi-circle, weapons pointed right at Alastair. The diligence is admirable, even if the image of an armed militia training their guns on a mostly-naked man is an inherently ridiculous one. Their caution is understandable, of course, and if he had the time he’d ponder why Alastair hasn’t made an attempt at transformation and escape, but now Nikola is looking between the two of them and his answer is more pressing.

“You’ve just as much a say in this as any of us,” Grayson adds when his silence continues.

Nikola’s expression suggests he’s considering his words closely; when he finally speaks it’s slow, with just as much care going into how he delivers his thoughts as what they end up being: “It may not change your mind, but I have great trust in her. As much as I do in you. Don’t forget which of the two of us has spent more time with the rebels, either.” He offers Grayson a small, cautious smile as he attempts to lighten the mood. “If Devi says they can be trusted to protect me then I believe her.”

Grayson takes what time he needs to parse the comments, but Nikola looks resolute and seems to have no doubt in his own words. It’d be one thing if he was already hesitant, but he can hardly create uncertainty when no room for such a thing exists.

He can’t help but offer one last out, however, saying, “If you’re sure …”

Nikola nods. “You have no need to worry.”

Well. That settles it. He looks back to Devi, who’s been watching them both the entire time; her arms are crossed over her chest and she looks to be seconds away from tapping her foot in impatience.

“Satisfied?” she asks.

He reaches for Alastair’s arm and takes up his hold once more.

“Let’s be on our way, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's some character stuff here that might seem questionable - I know, and all I can do is ask for your patience.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, another short one that's mostly moving pieces around the board. But I guess it's better to set everything up before you knock it all down, right?
> 
> Chapter first posted 26 June 2018.

The carriage moves at a steady pace. It’s not especially fast – they can’t afford to go tearing through the streets, not when any kind of attention could prove dangerous – but what they lack in speed they make up for in consistency. Their driver is confident, knows the roads well: nothing about his performance would indicate the kind of sought-after individuals he’s transporting.

On a more personal, less important note, Grayson finds himself relaxing into the trip precisely because of the ride’s smoothness. The rocking of carriages has always managed to lull him into a more thoughtful mood, and this is no exception. Considering the situation he currently occupies, perhaps it should be.

Devi sits across from him. Beside her is the young rebel man. He’s armed with a revolver, she with a knight’s blade, and both have their sights firmly set on Alastair.

It’d been easier than he’d expected, getting him into the carriage and seated; true to her word Devi provided one of her people to assist, the extra pair of hands coming as a great help when trying to get him up the step and inside. The man had left him to it after that, though, retreating to Devi’s side, both of them with weapons out and eyes on them. The behaviour hadn’t surprised Grayson, having had his own struggles with extending benefit of the doubt to the enemy, and with nothing in his power to change the man’s mind his focus had shifted back to the task at hand. Grayson had helped Alastair into one of the seats furthest from the door and then left him under the rebel’s careful watch as he made his last-minute preparations.

Alastair’s been sitting in that exact spot ever since, barely shifting position even with all the movement of the carriage. His head is bowed, the blanket pulled tight around him, and somehow despite the situation there’s very little tension held in the lines of his body. As absurd as the thought is he wonders if these sorts of trips are as meditative for Alastair as they are for him.

Despite how nonthreatening he appears right now Grayson keeps one hand on the hilt of his blade. He’s closest, after all, and the one responsible for bringing him along.

Inside the carriage it’s as dark as possible. Devi’s lantern had gone to Mary, the woman escorting Nikola, and all the shades are pulled as far down as they can go: barely any light from outside reaches them. Even knowing how careless it would be, his fingers still itch to move one aside and take a look.

“We’ve been travelling a while now,” he says, disturbing the silence that envelopes the carriage.

Not even the low light can hide the expression Devi angles at him. “Concerned, knight?”

“Do I have reason to be?”

She doesn’t answer that, instead turns her head so she’s looking somewhere Alastair’s way. “Should we have been _compromised_ in any way moving as we are will allow us the chance to spot our pursuers. Then we can deal with them instead of leading them straight to our stronghold.”

“You sound as though you’ve some experience in this area.”

“We’re keeping a good pace,” she says, and the way she doesn’t address that comment doesn’t go unnoticed by him. “If something were wrong Henry would give us a warning. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

She gives him a confident nod, and that seems to be the end of that. Grayson doesn’t push for more; it wouldn’t do him much good anyway. While his talents remain to be seen, he finds it funny that this is the scenario it takes for him to start exercising his diplomatic muscles. He’s not had to rely heavily on them for a good while, but if he ends up spending as much time around the rebels as he suspects then it just might become his most well-developed skill.

If nothing else it’s given him another name to learn. Henry, their driver, and Mary, Nikola’s escort. Grayson eyes the young man sitting across from Alastair and wonders when he’ll learn his identity.

The carriage continues on.

Even with all Devi's words nothing can undo years of training that sees his mind cataloguing every turn they make, the length of time they spend travelling each road, and any particularly noticeable details that he picks up on from where he sits. It’s something that, again, won’t do him much good; his mental map of the city isn’t so comprehensive that he could recognise every single street they’ve gone down, and his conversation with Devi was enough of a distraction that he’s sure he missed a couple turns at least. He doesn’t need to continue it – it’s not as though he’ll need to find his way back any time soon – but having some idea of their destination would help him feel less unmoored.

Is Alastair having any of these thoughts? It would make sense for him to be: they share the same training, though if either of them were to be uncertain his list of concerns far outpaces Grayson’s. Is he too trying to track their movements, or is his mind preoccupied by other worries?

There’s so much to think about, so many variables, and he’s almost started to lose himself in them when he realises the carriage is slowing down, more and more until it finally pulls to a complete stop.

A dull knock comes from behind him and Grayson’s gaze snaps to Devi, who raises a hand at him. She gets to her feet and sheathes her blade.

“Wait here,” she says, moving for the door.

“Devi –”

“ _Wait. Here._ ”

There’s steel in her voice, and all his previous thoughts on his growing diplomacy go out the window as he opens his mouth to challenge her, but she’s out the door and gone before he can get any of his words out. He catches a glimpse of a dark street and an old building before the door too shuts him out. Grayson sits back in his seat with a low noise of frustration.

The young man is watching him.

“Just follow her instructions and we’ll all get along, knight,” he says, giving what Grayson thinks is his best attempt at a serious expression.

He has to do his utmost not to react to that, holding every scathing retort behind his teeth. He can’t help the way his eyebrow twitches, though, a response so instinctive that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t hope to resist it.

More surprising is that he’s not the only one to have a reaction. Beside him Alastair is shaking, curling in on himself slightly, movements barely there but noticeable all the same, and for a moment Grayson feels concern rise inside his chest. There’s something that comes along with it, however, a memory of a similar scenario, a similar apprehension. On a hunch he shifts imperceptibly closer, ears pricked, and sure enough he hears it, already low and muffled further: the sound of Alastair’s laughter.

It lights in him a warmth he can’t explain, something he’s not certain he wants – or is able – to examine just yet. Impossibly he feels the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth, and he has to hide it behind both his fist and a pretend cough to make sure the young man doesn’t catch sight of it. Either he doesn’t do as good a job as he thought or the rebel is more observant than he looks; a frown overtakes his face and he brings his revolver up a little higher.

“What’s all this then, eh?” he asks. He jerks his head towards the two of them.

Grayson clears his throat, amusement successfully buried. “We’ve been out in the cold for a while. Can you blame a man for feeling under the weather?”

The man looks between them. He’s quiet for a long time before he mutters, “Better be all that is.”

Alastair shakes even harder.

Grayson thinks he deserves some praise, for the second time that day resisting the urge to react despite the fact he’d be completely justified in doing so; Alastair should count himself lucky he doesn’t cop an elbow to the ribs.

Now that they’re ostensibly where they need to be every second that he spends waiting for Devi’s return feels like an age. He thinks, not uncharitably, that it’s unlikely she’s gone on ahead to make sure it’s safe for them: more likely that she’s gone to seek reinforcements to help provide support for when they bring Alastair in. Or perhaps she’s gone to seek out Lakshmi, to inform her of her most unexpected find. Whatever the reason, he can’t imagine it should take very long, and yet he finds himself still in his seat, pocket watch in hand, watching as more and more times passes.

He’s about ready to kick the door open and damn the consequences – even the young man has started to look nervously towards the shades by now – when there’s a sound from outside. A door opening, and lowered voices, growing closer –

“Here,” and the door opens, and there’s Nikola, smiling up at him.

Behind him is Henry, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else but knows what the consequences will likely be if he tries to make a break for it.

“Nikola,” Grayson says slowly, glancing between the two of them. At the sound of his voice Henry starts swivelling his head, like he expects someone to jump out at them at any second; meanwhile Nikola lays one hand on the doorway’s edge and peers in at them. His gaze lingers on Alastair, and then the young rebel, and suddenly being in the carriage is starting to feel like the preferable option.

“How did you manage to beat us here?”

He can't help but ask the question, foolish and unimportant as it must seem - he wants to know. Anything to help solidify the ground beneath his feet.

“You took the scenic route, remember?” Nikola says. He pauses a moment, then, slowly, “It’d be best if you came inside now.”

The young rebel chooses this moment to spring to life, standing as tall as he can in their low-ceilinged carriage – which is to say, not very tall at all – with his revolver held prominently aloft. “Oi, what’s all this –”

Grayson turns away from him. “You’re certain?”

Nikola offers him a nod and nothing more. It’s not enough, not for Grayson, but he has to take it, and so he begins the process of extricating Alastair from the closed-in box they call transportation. The task’s made more difficult from the lack of help; Henry’s stuck behind Nikola, who’s currently engaged in distracting the young unnamed rebel. He half pays attention as he works:

“– following _orders_ –”

“Be calm my friend, there’s nothing –”

“– you seen her? Cos I won’t be held responsible –”

“Quiet, you fool!” That’s Henry, his sudden hiss cutting between the two. “Anyone could be nearby!”

“You’re not the one she left _in charge_ –”

Grayson nearly staggers as Alastair leans his weight into him coming off the final step; he quickly plants his feet and with both hands clamped around Alastair’s shoulders, steadies them. He keeps one hand there as he casts his gaze over their surroundings but all that meets his eye is a dark, wet street and equally dark buildings.

Between their noise and the oncoming dawn they won’t stay dark for long.

The young rebel has moved to follow them. He stands in the entrance of the carriage, and while he’s now exchanging furious words with Henry, his eyes – and more importantly, the barrel of his revolver – are still locked on him and Alastair. Grayson takes a moment to appreciate that he at least had enough intelligence not to attempt stopping them leaving, though that’s as far as it extends, apparently. Nikola, meanwhile, has edged off to the side. There’s an urgent look on his face when they share a glance.

Alright, then.

“We’re moving,” he announces, loud enough to interrupt the chatter. At the stare he receives he continues, “If you’re concerned about doing your duty you’d better follow us.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just angles himself and Alastair in Nikola’s direction and starts walking.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character tag update! Character tag update! \o/
> 
> Chapter first posted 10 July 2018.

The building they all file into is far from derelict, but something about the scene – be it the darkened streets or the knowledge of what brings them here – lends things an illicit kind of impression. Henry had been the most reluctant to leave the carriage in the end, strangely enough, only trailing after them once Nikola had promised someone would soon be along to tend to the horses. Even then he hardly seemed enthused. Now he follows along at the end of their group and his relative lack of hostility is miraculous compared to the other rebel in their party.

Grayson tries not to think of the revolver aimed at his back, or how easily a trigger finger could ‘slip’.

Inside it’s as dim and quiet as it was on the streets, not a soul to be seen, but he’s had more than enough experience dealing with rebels by now, and he trusts the prickle along the back of his neck that tells him he’s being watched. The rooms are furnished, plush sofas and finely crafted coffee tables, all covered in a thick layer of dust; this place, whatever it was, had been beautiful once. Now its faded beauty provides a different kind of splendour.

Splendour, and something else entirely, considering the rebels have made their home here.

Nikola leads them through a door towards the rear, into some kind of storage room, and only once they’re all inside and the door shut behind them does he approach the shelves and cabinets that line the furthest wall.

From where he stands Grayson can only just make out what they hold: boxes of dry goods and tins of spices, and stacks upon stacks of cups. Nikola seems to be hunting for something specific, shifting aside the myriad clutter until he can reach right to the backboard –

There’s a heavy-sounding _clunk_ , and the whir of some mechanism spinning to life, and then the shelf begins to _move_ , sliding along some invisible track and disappearing into the large cabinet that sits directly beside it. In its absence there’s a passage cut away, thin and dark and vanishing behind the wall and down.

Moments like this are what remind Grayson that he’s, somehow, still not as cynical as he believes himself to be. He itches to step forward and examine the machinery up close, observe the craftsmanship in the detail it deserves – see, how the shelf fits inside perfectly, and how the cabinet’s insides are designed so as not to give away their falsehood! If Nikola was the sole brain behind such a contraption he wouldn’t be surprised.

He hopes the wonder doesn’t show on his face. By the way Nikola’s looking at him though some of it has slipped through.

Grayson clears his throat. “Trap doors and false walls … what else have you in store for me?”

“The surprise is half the fun, is it not?” Nikola smiles as he steps into the passage. The way he holds himself then, and the look on his face, one could almost forget the troubles he’s so recently endured. “Be sure to mind the stairs here.”

If getting Alastair into and out of a carriage was a task he could accomplish then surely this would be no different, and to his relief he’s correct. Perhaps it’s the walls around them that provide some unexpected aid, or perhaps it’s just the fact that neither of them needs to duck to get around, but he and Alastair navigate the descent with relative ease, one slow searching step at a time.

It isn’t long before they’re all in the passage, and Grayson’s just grown used to the dim kind of light when it disappears entirely. So preoccupied had he been with getting them down the stairs that he hadn’t heard the shelf sliding back into place, and for a moment he stands there, embraced by shadows, thinking first and foremost of the pain that awaits him at the bottom should their party continue walking and collide with them. He doesn’t miss the noise the second time around; further away than he imagined Nikola is bathed in pale light as their exit is revealed. Halfway out he turns and beckons them on.

Grayson doesn’t need to be told twice.

A pair of armed rebels stare him down as he emerges from the passage, Alastair on his heels. One wears a scarf that obscures much of his face while the others' is exposed, and both are heavily armed. Stepping out from behind false walls with hooded prisoners in tow must be an everyday occurrence as the two barely blink at the sight, though they hold their weapons with a little more purpose until the rest of their party appears. No one seems eager to speak. Grayson waits and watches, and as the wall slides back where it belongs Nikola gives a nod to the guards. With one last speculative look in his and Alastair’s direction the scarfed man unlocks the door, holds the rusty squeaking thing open as they all file through.

From this thin hallway they enter a larger room, open space sectioned off with desks and partitions, a makeshift headquarters with several smaller rooms branching off on either side. Grayson is almost immediately reminded of Nikola’s lab back in Westminster, although the layout isn’t quite the same and there are rather more armed rebels than scientists roaming the floor. Missing, too, is the familiar and cosy atmosphere that permeated the lab, though that part is more understandable. He’s not sure what it is that makes him think of that place he was so fond of, but it’s there, intangible, comforting in one moment and off-putting in the next.

There are fewer people milling about than he expected. He can’t decide if he’s surprised by that or not; there’s so little he knows about this place that he supposes anything could be the norm.

“This way, quickly,” Nikola says, out of nowhere.

The sudden sound of his voice startles Grayson out of his ruminations, but Nikola doesn’t wait to see if he agrees or even heard. He just starts heading deeper in, and if that doesn’t indicate some sense of urgency Grayson doesn’t know what else would.

He can feel the eyes of the rebels on him as they pass by but Nikola’s pace is relentless, and he can’t pay them attention and successfully herd Alastair along at the same time, so he ignores them as best he can. It also means the deeper observations he wishes to make of this place must be put on hold, and that leaves him less enthused. He’ll have to make do with what he can.

The room they end up in front of is one near the rear of the larger hall and Grayson thinks he can guess its purpose before he even steps inside. Two guards are posted either side of the entrance, as heavily armed as the men they encountered earlier; they nod as Nikola approaches, taking hold of one heavy door each, and with a screech of metal they’re admitted.

Inside it’s mostly empty space. A few benches are backed up against the walls, a small table sits off to one side and a simple cot occupies a corner. And there, in the centre of the room, stands a large cage.

Being right isn’t always as satisfying as it’s made out to be.

“Nikola …”

His voice sounds uncertain to his own ears so he can imagine the impression the others in their group must be getting. The look he receives then from Nikola, however, is one he’s quickly coming to recognise: one of resolution, but with understanding at its heart.

“You’ve had faith in me this far, my friend. If you can only trust me one more time, please, let this be it.”

Even when everything inside of him is roiling with uncertainty Grayson holds to one truth that has yet to fail him – that he does, in fact, trust Nikola. Still it wars with his very nature, and with the sense of wrongness that fills him as he leads Alastair inside the cage. There is nothing inside to shackle his hands to so he leaves them bound as is, and it’s with the weight of dread upon him that he reaches up, pulls the hood from Alastair’s head and loosens the gag.

He’s back and out of the cage, the cell door clanging shut behind him, before Alastair even has a chance to adjust to the light.

From out of arm’s reach he watches, vaguely aware of how, around him, the rebels are similarly moving forward. They don’t dare come any closer than Grayson, and they hold their weapons at the ready, like they expect him to try something _now_ ; after coming as far as they have without a fight, did they really think this would be the moment he’d choose?

Alastair’s squinting has settled into a narrow glare as he takes in his new confines. His hands still test their bonds as he steps up to the bars and rests his grip there, and when his gaze passes over all of them to land on Grayson he meets it without hesitation.

“Well then,” he says, “isn’t this something.”

There’s nothing he can think to say, no blustering that wouldn’t be immediately transparent, especially to the two men here who’d known him as a knight. Though he couldn’t claim to be the closest to Alastair, particularly compared to some others in the Order, he doesn’t doubt the man would call any bluff he made. Hell, he wouldn’t put it past him to somehow know outright that he was lying.

So he takes the best option available to him, and says nothing at all.

Alastair cocks an eyebrow at that, but he doesn’t push. Instead his eyes begin to wander, alighting on most everything in the room and lingering for a moment or two before moving to something new. Maybe they should’ve been closer, Grayson thinks as he watches him; maybe he’d have more of an idea of what might be going through his head right now. Maybe he’d have seen the signs earlier and they’d never have ended up here.

Or maybe it just would’ve made him easier to fool.

It’s not long after that Alastair huffs out a breath and addresses the room at large: “So what now?”

Grayson looks around at his companions. The rebels’ input seems to begin and end with where they aim their guns, which helps him very little – though he also finds himself unspeakably grateful that none of them have decided to play hero in any way – and Nikola’s attention appears drawn elsewhere. One hand holds tight to his pocket watch and he’s half-turned his body towards the door, face a mask of concentration. Whatever he’s waiting for, it’s significant.

As though summoned by the observation there’s noise from outside, conversation and the sound of footsteps growing closer. Nikola looks his way then, nods his head in what might be reassurance, but there’s no time for him to work it out.

For through the doors walks Lakshmi, Devi close behind.

“Sir Knight!” she calls, already breaking into a smile. “When I heard the Queenhithe safe house was occupied I hardly dared believe we’d be so lucky.”

Despite his misgivings Grayson feels himself smile in return. “I take it we’re a pleasant surprise, then.”

“Pleasant, yes; surprise, no. Devi informed me of the situation on my return.”

“Rani, if you’d let me –”

Lakshmi holds up one hand and Devi goes silent, and before he can wonder what’s going on between them Lakshmi’s stepping closer. There’s a conspiratorial kind of expression on her face.

“Rumour has it you’ve brought me a Lycan,” she says.

In the space of a heartbeat every contented feeling he’d had vanishes.

A great deal seems to happen then in a short space of time as the pieces fall into place. He sees Lakshmi look around at her people, the nods she offers them and the kind smile she reserves for Nikola; he sees, finally, the tightly coiled fury that Devi seems to only just be holding back. They’d all been standing right where they are now when the pair came in, an oddly formed wall of bodies, and Grayson? He’d been the heart of it, standing directly in Alastair’s way.

God damn it all.

Before any more time passes – before this hole someone’s dug gets deeper or before she _asks_ , double damn it all – he steps aside. Lakshmi’s eyes are on him immediately, because of course they are, but then she looks beyond him to the cage and its occupant, and he can tell the exact moment she processes who’s standing inside.

“Lady Lakshmi?”

Nikola’s voice sounds far away. No one seems willing to move, let alone Lakshmi; she just stares and stares, and her stillness is almost as concerning as the intensity of her gaze.

When she speaks it’s in a tone void of all emotion. “What a Lycan indeed.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The eternal struggle: trying to motivate yourself to write when you really just want to sit around playing a JRPG for 16 hours a day.
> 
> In totally unrelated news: Octopath Traveler is a pretty good game you guys.
> 
> Chapter first posted 24 July 2018.

“What a pleasure it is seeing you again so soon.”

Alastair doesn’t exactly leer, but the way he looks at Lakshmi is far from agreeable. Hands still looped around the bars he steps closer, until he’s almost pressed against the cage, and when the rebels jerk and aim at him in earnest he smirks. He shows little care for the fact that he’s almost entirely naked, exposed in more ways than one. As fiercely as she’s staring him down he meets her gaze without reserve.

Grayson’s seen enough tests of will to recognise one happening right in front of him, but he still feels that familiar mix of anticipation and dread flood his veins at the thought of them facing off. He hasn’t been acquainted with Lakshmi as long but what he’s seen of her resolve he knows to be strong, but Alastair has all the recklessness of a man imprisoned and with little left to lose. Grayson wouldn’t be surprised to see him act accordingly.

Alastair tips his head in Grayson’s direction and says, “I assume I’m not part of the _pleasant surprise_.”

Case in point.

“Should’ve left his gag on,” Henry mutters from the side. His bravado withers a second later as Alastair sets his sights on him.

Lakshmi, who’s been still and silent up until now, finally moves forward. She walks past him, into the space they’ve all left as safe distance, and every noise of warning they make goes unheard as she _keeps going_ and doesn’t stop until she’s well within reach of him.

Grayson reaches back and rests one hand on the hilt of his blade. As unlikely as it is she’d require it and as reluctant as he might be, he trusts himself to react should the need arise.

If Lakshmi is intimidated at all she doesn’t show it, just tilts her head as she looks him over. “What was your name again, Lycan?”

“Your second didn’t tell you?” Alastair glances Devi’s way and shakes his head, tutting his disappointment. “So hard to find good help these days.”

“No, that’s not it.”

She makes a considering noise and begins to pace slowly before him. Alastair’s eyes track her every movement. He’s draped right against the bars now.

She stops as suddenly as she’d started, turns on her heel so she’s right in front of him and snaps her fingers. Grayson looks from her to Nikola and Devi but they’re both as rapt as he’d been. When he turns back she’s somehow closer still, close enough to touch him.

“I remember now.”

There’s something in her hand.

“Betrayer,” she hisses.

Light catches on something as her arm moves and Alastair grunts, twists his body away from the bars and in on itself, hands pressed against his side. Grayson takes a step forward without even realising it, the dread that had filled him earlier suddenly taking new form. It’s too late.

Lakshmi raises her arm to press her wrist against the bars. Blood drips from the silver of her blade.

“That was for Finley,” she says, voice hard. “There’s another in store for every one of my people you’ve killed.”

“Lakshmi!”

She turns and for just a moment he gets a glimpse of Alastair behind her, body a tight coil, red escaping from under his fingers; on his face is an expression of utter fury, and it’s one of the truest showing of emotion Grayson’s ever seen from him.

The attack he half-expects doesn’t come and as Lakshmi storms towards him his attention settles firmly again on her.

“What were you _thinking_?” he snarls.

She doesn’t stop walking.

“Lycans heal,” she snaps, pushing past him, and only when she’s nearly back at Devi’s side does she stop. “Henry, Thomas, stand guard. No one touches him without my permission. If the situation changes inform me immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the rebels answer. Grayson doesn’t get to enjoy finally learning the young man’s name as Devi speaks up:

“Rani, it’s not wise to leave him –”

“We must talk, Devi. Nikola, and you,” she looks at Grayson, “you, follow me, now.”

She gives them no chance to argue, striding out the door without a second’s hesitation. Devi takes a moment to look them both over and throw a glare Alastair’s way before she disappears after her. He has enough time to share a glance with Nikola and then they’re heading for the door as well, and he forces down the urge to sneak one last look at Alastair before he leaves him alone in rebel hands.

Devi’s waiting for them outside a room not too far away. It’s a similar scene to when they made their entrance, only now there are just as many people staring at the room they came out of as the one they’re heading towards. He’d like to imagine they’d have enough sense not to poke their noses into business that’s not theirs, but at the end of the day they’re only human; if looking is all they do it’ll be a better outcome than he expects.

Devi shuts the door once they’re inside and Grayson looks around. It’s a plain room, mostly storage by the looks of it, though there’s a small table and a couple of chairs set against one of the walls. By the amount of stationery strewn across it he wonders if it might be doubling as someone’s makeshift office.

Lakshmi is leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest. Her gaze passes over each of them in a slow and thorough search.

Finally, she says, “Now, where do we begin?”

Silence stretches long between them. Lakshmi seems ready to settle in for a wait but it’s Devi who speaks first, surprising him if not everyone else.

“I tried to tell you,” she says, and there’s a shake to her voice he’s never heard before. “You must believe me, Rani, I did try.”

“I see that now. It’s my fault for not listening.” Devi dips her head, so it’s only Nikola and himself that see the approving look Lakshmi wears. “You did well, child.”

“Forgive me, Lakshmi, but what is this?”

Grayson already feels as though he’s intruding, and though the moment is too fragile to last regardless, he still tastes guilt upon shattering it completely. Both ladies’ heads snap to him, their narrowed eyes his first warning.

“ _This_ ,” Lakshmi gestures broadly, “is me wondering if you’ve lost what sense I assumed you had. You brought him here! Him! What were you _thinking_?”

“Lady Lakshmi, please –”

She cuts Nikola off, “So overjoyed was I to hear of your arrival that I gave Devi no chance to name the Lycan in your midst, didn’t hear her warning of how _strangely_ our ally the knight was acting. And you, Nikola: our history makes me more trusting, but perhaps you had some part to play in all this?”

“Rani –”

“This suspicion is entirely ridiculous –”

She acknowledges neither of them, focus solely on Nikola. “What was your involvement?”

He says nothing for a moment, briefly looking Grayson’s way, and all the confusion and anger this situation has awoken in him suddenly feels utterly useless. As loudly as everything in him is yelling to interfere, in Lakshmi’s current state he’s sure it’ll fall on deaf ears; even as he trusts Nikola to speak the truth, watching him turn back to her, he wishes there was more he could do.

“I’ve already asked one person today to trust me unreservedly; it might not be fair to ask it from you, too,” Nikola begins slowly. “But I can promise you, whatever you think is happening here, it can be explained. You haven’t been betrayed.”

Grayson has to give him credit: with his carefully chosen words and genuine tone even the most sceptical person would find it difficult to not be convinced by him. He’s just glad such skills are being used in his favour.

Whether or not she fully believes him, it seems to have had the desired effect. Lakshmi’s posture softens, as does the intensity of her gaze.

“Have you at least seen a doctor?”

Nikola ducks his head. “Briefly.”

She sighs. “Go, Nikola. You need to rest.”

“With respect, Lady Lakshmi, I’ll wait until we’re finished here.”

“Very well; I won’t force you.” She turns her attention to Grayson then, and the softness that had been there only moments ago is already fading. “Our mutual friend promises explanation, and loyalty. Are you in agreement?”

“Ask me your questions, Lakshmi. I’m no mind reader.”

“What was your reason for bringing him here?”

“And why were you so reluctant to reveal his identity?” Devi adds.

Getting straight to the point, then. Grayson looks between them, hoping for some hint as to where to start; Devi’s anger holds captive. “I don’t know what you mean –”

“You stopped Nikola from naming him when we found you.” She is unrelenting, fists clenched at her sides. “Did you think I wouldn’t know the face of the one who tried to kill my queen? You were _protecting_ him.”

“If I was,” he says slowly, ignoring the way her face twists, “can you not imagine why? When you just demonstrated perfectly why I’d need to shield him such?”

“When he deserves to _die_ –”

“Devi.”

Lakshmi’s voice cuts through their growing argument. It’s a temporary calm, her interruption, or at least it is for him; Devi’s frown is starting to seem more and more like her default expression. Grayson closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and when he addresses her again tries to consciously hold on to his composure.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t know him, foolish as that may seem. I needed to keep him with me, so I did what I thought necessary. None of this was … planned.”

“That much is obvious.”

This time when Lakshmi cuts in it’s accompanied by a scoff. It catches him off guard somewhat, and so does the way he finds her looking at him, eerily reminiscent of her daughter in that moment. It’s a look that suggests she doubts an intelligent word has ever come out of his mouth.

He’s more used to that look than he’d like to admit, but seeing it on Lakshmi is an entirely new experience.

She gives him no chance to respond: “You knew the risks you were taking keeping him alive, allowing him to come to this place; if he escapes, or his allies learn his location? The lives of _every one_ of my people are under threat. I’d certainly hope you wouldn’t _plan_ such a reckless action.”

Grayson hasn’t been so harshly chastised since his earliest days as a knight-in-training. Even as his combative nature rears its head in response he knows she’s not wrong. And yet he can’t bring himself to apologise for what he’s done; not when he believes it was his only course of action, not when he’d do it again. All he can do is dip his head, contrite in action if not words.

Lakshmi seems tired when he looks at her again. “Why did you bring him here, Grayson?”

He stares at her longer than he should before the words finally come. “He betrayed both of us. He’s Hastings’ partner: his knowledge of their operations, his connections to the Half-Breeds – surely you see how valuable that could be?”

She shakes her head. “There’s only one thing I want from that creature in there, and it isn’t information.”

Grayson’s insides lurch. “You wouldn’t –”

“Lady Lakshmi …”

“Peace, both of you. Much as I’d like to see it done, vengeance has its time and place.” She eyes all of them in turn, another evaluating gaze, and blows out a long breath. “The moment his presence looks to harm us we cut him loose. Are we clear?”

Devi’s scowl says she’s ready to argue some more, but finally she sets her jaw and murmurs her agreement. The declaration was likely meant for her more than him or Nikola, but he nods just the same. Considering the other possible outcomes he’s not about to invite further debate.

Lakshmi finally pushes away from the wall. “If we’re done here, then, would you show our guest the basics, Devi? And please, Nikola, get yourself fixed up.”

It’s as clear and final a dismissal as they’re going to get. Lakshmi busies herself with the clutter of papers on the table and doesn’t look up again, and Devi’s waiting by the door already; with nothing left but to follow her suggestions Grayson leaves the room, Nikola following close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that feel when you write a character being kinda provocative and leaning up against stuff and then remember _they're totally naked_
> 
> i'm _so sorry_ alastair i _swear_ i wasn't trying to make you flash everyone


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an ideal world where I wasn't paralyzed by my own indecisiveness and this dumb thing was already finished when I chose to start posting it, some (if not all) of the previous, shorter chapters would be combined into longer ones and there wouldn't be this ridiculous schedule to contend with. Unfortunately we're not in an ideal world. And the thought of going back to combine chapters and risk losing the comments I've received on them is beyond imagining - I'm still in shock that I've gotten the amount I have, to be honest, and so I'm hoarding them like a dragon.
> 
> All of this to say: this is the shortest chapter yet. And I am so, _so_ sorry about that.
> 
> Chapter first posted 7 August 2018.

His experiences in those early hours of his first day come to define much of his time at the rebel safe house, though he doesn’t yet know it. Nikola parts from them almost immediately, a nod to Devi and a clasp of Grayson’s arm and then he’s gone, disappearing into the busyness of the main hall. Off to be seen to by the doctor, or at least that’s where he should be heading; knowing Nikola he could just as likely be off to tinker with some new design, or stop in to visit some rebel ally. Regardless of where he’s headed Grayson feels sure in the knowledge that he won’t be the only one looking out for the young inventor’s well-being; Lakshmi, and likely Devi too, will be making certain he gets himself looked after.

After everything he’s been through, be it willingly or at Grayson’s behest, he deserves all the rest in the world.

Some number of steps away Devi clears her throat. He looks her way and she jerks her head to one side, a silent demand to _hurry up, already_ , and as he follows her he thinks it’s a miracle she didn’t simply leave him there gawking. It wouldn’t have surprised him, all things considered.

The tour he receives of the building is much like Devi herself: quick and to the point. She leads him down one side of the hall, pointing out the functions of each room they pass – a dormitory and another, smaller storage area, respectively – before taking him across to the other. These rooms are more interesting: what appears to be an armoury, the doctors’ office, currently void of Nikola’s presence, and a final, larger room, some combination of mess hall and gathering point.

One thing they all have in common is the way the occupants stare at him, blatantly and unreserved in their distrust.

“There’s more of you here than I expected,” Grayson says, loud enough that only Devi hears. She gives a noncommittal hum in response, and he finds her staring towards Alastair’s room when he looks her way. “You believe it’s safe, this many people in one place?”

“We’ve lasted this long, haven’t we?”

She moves away and Grayson, conceding the point, follows her. The main hall is full of tables and boards, every inch of available surface plastered with plans of various sorts. Rebels linger at the edges of some; as he and Devi approach one such table those surrounding it scatter, taking their documents with them. Grayson watches them in turn as Devi half-sits on one corner of the table, filing through papers of her own.

“They’ll be staring for a while yet, knight,” she calls, pulling him out of his observation.

Their eyes meet briefly. She looks, much like she usually does, as though she’s sizing him up. The examination doesn’t last long; her gaze shifts elsewhere, and she nods towards one of the many groups of rebels lurking round the fringes.

“You and your Order killed a great many of our people. Your presence here unnerves them.”

Grayson glances at them, from the ones pretending they’re not listening to those who meet his gaze outright. “I can hardly blame them.”

Devi sighs, a long, drawn out breath. “Some ground rules while you’re with us?”

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t need to tell you not to cause trouble, yes?”

The look he gives her he feels is answer enough.

“One must be thorough in these things,” she says, and if it were anybody else he might think she was trying to be funny. “My queen’s word is final. Unless she or someone she trusts says otherwise, keep out of affairs that don’t concern you.”

“And that someone she trusts would be you, correct?”

This time it’s Grayson on the receiving end of a self-explanatory look.

“The security of this place is more important than anything else. So again, unless you have _express permission_ to leave, you won’t be going anywhere. Not any time soon.”

“Anything else?”

She considers him for a long moment. “Your weapons. You’ll need to hand them over.”

“You’re joking.” If his jaw were the sort that dropped it would’ve been well on its way.

“Every person here is already wary of you. Can you not see how carrying a weapon would make things worse?”

“You do realise they’ll be suspicious of me whether I’m armed or not?”

“No harm in removing fuel from the fire,” she says, staring him down.

He thinks she’s only seconds away from holding her hand out like some stern teacher and twitching her fingers at him when he pulls his revolver from its holster. He lingers for a moment over each of the blades still strapped to him, but Devi is unmoving and unrelenting and in the end he can only hand them over, too.

“I’ll want those back,” he says as she sets them aside, “and in the same condition they’re in now.”

“Good to know where your concerns lie, knight. They’ll be safe.”

Grayson waits for more, some biting comment or new commandment, but Devi remains silent and so he nods, “Very well.”

“I’ll have you a space set up in the mess hall. At least until your presence is less … disruptive.”

If she was expecting more of a fight out of him then she doesn’t show it. Instead Devi turns her attention back to the papers she’d previously been examining, and it’s obvious she’s been taking lessons out of her mother’s book when it comes to finishing conversations. Understandable, when it’s such an effective tactic.

Presumably he’ll receive his bedding sometime closer to an appropriate sleeping hour – assuming he gets anything at all – but until then it seems he’s been cut loose.

Grayson casts his gaze around the room. The typical host of distractions presents itself: familiarising himself more thoroughly with his surroundings, tracking down Nikola and seeing that he’s receiving the treatment he needs … and then there’s Alastair. His feet have moved independently of his mind and he finds himself deposited just outside the room that holds him. The rebels here are the only ones who don’t look his way, funnily enough, though they do have something far more pressing to keep their eyes on.

One might not think it, given his appearance. Low to the ground and hunched in on himself, Alastair’s expression is grim. Rather than using the cell bars for support he’s settled somewhere near the middle of the cage, far enough that one would likely have to stick their entire arm inside just to lay fingertips on him. His skin is the unhealthy pallor of blood lost; amid the colourlessness of the room the splashes of red that stain the floor are all too visible.

It turns Grayson’s insides to lead, seeing him like this, staring blindly at some point past the bars of his cell. No calculating gaze, no biting taunt. He is caged, and silent.

Had things not nearly come to a head over this exact issue he might’ve considered making his temporary home in this room. Now he can envision the kind of image it would present. He has no illusions about changing the rebels’ perception of him, but he knows that acting like he’s Alastair’s keeper will be the opposite of endearing.

And so he leaves him, slips away from the room and all the following eyes, and finds himself a quiet, unoccupied spot against the wall to sit and take stock of himself and his situation.

That’s where he remains, long hours spent in silence until Devi comes to collect him. It’s impossible to have a true sense of time down here but with moments of rest being so few and far between, he’ll take whatever opportunity he can.

What he ends up with is little more than a bedroll, sequestered away in a corner of the mess hall, furthest from the clutter that makes up the remainder of the area. Privacy is non-existent, though that’s less of a concern considering all the time he’s spent around his fellow knights in similar situations. These people are certainly not knights, and he might not trust them anywhere near as much, but to be able to sleep knowing that someone’s watching his back is a great relief. Devi’s long since left him to it, so even if he wanted to complain there’d be no one to listen – smart girl, that one – but that she kept true to her word is enough to satisfy him. With his various effects set within arms’ reach Grayson settles down, back against the wall, and tries to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on updated minor tags: Alastair is mentioned to be going through some stuff in this chapter, and since I couldn't decide which tag was more accurate I thought it might be best to list both.
> 
> Also prepare for some Dumb Author Headcanons in this one.
> 
> Chapter first posted 21 August 2018.

For all its simplicity and despite its exposed nature, his little bed becomes a comfy sort of haven over the many days and nights he spends within the rebel base. True to his word he keeps both out of trouble and business that isn’t his; how they’d expect him to cause trouble when there’s next to nothing for him to do is beyond him. Therein, however, lies an altogether different problem.

How does he keep himself sharp when all he’s permitted to do is move about the place and keep his eyes open?

The rebels provide no amusement. Faces he learns to recognise come and go but the provocations he’s been expecting never materialise; filthy glares and sneers are in abundance but little else beyond that. He suspects someone’s had words with all of them, though _which_ someone he’s not quite sure. So Grayson keeps the peace, so long as it’s mutual, meets the rebels glare for glare but only ever that, and all the moments his blood sings for something more are buried quick and deep.

The hours that can’t be filled by running training drills, matching scowls with the rebels, and feeling bereft of purpose, he mostly spends with Nikola. The inventor launches into work even when he oughtn’t; his injuries, as Grayson is all too willing to remind him, are the kind that require bedrest, though thankfully that’s all. Nikola, in turn, is eager to reply that with him abed there’d be one less diversion open to him.

It’s a difficult argument to counter.

Grayson spends more time watching him work than helping. Partly from the nature of it: Nikola takes it on himself to inspect, repair, and sometimes modify whatever weapon or mechanised object he can get his hands on, and his tinkering is far more precise than anything Grayson could hope to accomplish. That, and he quickly notices how uneasy the rebels become upon seeing him in the presence of weapons, even more so when it’s their own he’s handling.

Perhaps Devi was onto something after all.

So he watches. Admires the craftsmanship and Nikola’s skill and when there’s nothing else, lets the sound of his fiddling lull him. The more it happens the more Nikola takes mercy on him, dragging him back into the present with requests: fetch the revolver over there, hold this pin in place, recite that page. Once Nikola knows he’s got his attention the requests change shape –

“How long until the guard rotation starts?”

“Who’s in charge of the rations today?”

“How many people within the building?”

It isn’t difficult to see what he’s doing. While it does nothing for the itch he feels under his skin to move Grayson at least finds himself momentarily distracted, and with every passing day he takes to the habit more and more, until it’s done entirely out of instinct. The routine helps him to feel a bit more like himself, and if he happens to notice certain things, certain patterns surrounding people and the contents of the safe house, well. That’s for him to keep in mind.

Lakshmi and Devi’s movements are harder to pin down, despite there only being two of them. Between them Lakshmi ventures out less often – still following the same operating procedure as when they were on opposing sides, it seems – though the number of times he’s believed her to be in the next room only to find her gone upon seeking her out is higher than he’d like to admit. When they do disappear it’s not for long, their longest excursion barely scraping a third of the day, but every hour passes with breath held until they return.

His final port of call, of course, is Alastair’s cell. It’s always his shortest distraction; any attempts at conversation are usually rebuffed, those on guard duty just as likely to ignore him, and looking at him through the gaps in his cell overlong makes him too uneasy to linger. Every now and then he catches him in the middle of a sort of exercise, using the bars at the top of his cage to pull himself upright, and Grayson spares a thought for him: if his own boredom has reached mind-numbing levels he can only imagine how Alastair’s faring, with even less to distract him. At some point early on they’d provided him a pair of trousers, and his blanket sits folded in one corner. Though he’s never seen it, he knows they’re feeding him.

Then there’s the injuries.

Alastair had healed, just as they knew he would. But then came the bloody nose, the blackened eye, and the busted lip. Most recent had been the broken finger, and that’s only what he’d had the misfortune to discover. It seemed every rebel wanted a shift on guard, they changed so often, and none of them seemed to know who was responsible when asked. As for Alastair, he would only stare at him, a few long moments of piercing gaze, before he returned to whatever it was he was doing before being so rudely interrupted.

Standing in the doorway this particular night, watching him string together push ups, Grayson supposes the break must have healed.

It’s a quiet evening, the rebels present few and far between, so he hears it all but immediately when footsteps scrape the ground close by. There’s a presence by his right shoulder; he doesn’t turn to look.

“A moment of your time, knight?”

“Lakshmi.”

It’s at once surprising and entirely predictable. She’s staring into the room when he looks her way, eyes locked exactly where he’d expect them to be.

“Something on your mind?” he asks.

Her expression is closed off and all too familiar. She nods her head to the side. “Follow me.”

They end up back in that same room that held their initial conversation, all those days ago when he first arrived. Not much has changed since then: the shelves are a little emptier, and one of the chairs has a blanket folded over its back. The desk, once so cluttered, is now free of papers. Besides one of the chairs, the one Lakshmi’s moving towards, sits a semi-large tank of some sort.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she says as she sits, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders as she settles in.

“I’d need more than a blanket for that.”

He feels like he’d better emphasise his point by remaining standing, but why waste a perfectly good chair? Besides, the unimpressed look on Lakshmi’s face suggests she’s probably only moments from ordering him to sit, and the contrary part of him wants that stopped before it happens.

“You may not believe or appreciate this, but your time here could have been far less hospitable.”

“Compared to imprisonment? Yes, it’s been grand.”

“I didn’t ask you in here to argue, knight.”

She makes that last word sound like a threat, like it used to, before the birth of this tenuous partnership. It’s enough to give him pause, to force him to take a moment, breathe deep, and smother the sparks alight under his skin.

“No,” he finally grits out, releasing the tension from his body and leaning back into his chair, “I’m sure you didn’t. Forgive me.”

Lakshmi waves her hand, and as though it’s just as easy as that she moves on. “Devi tells me you’ve been spending much of your time with Nikola.”

“He seems comfortable here. Around your people.”

“Something would be gravely wrong if he didn’t,” she says, and the way her mouth quirks at the corners gives her a sardonic look.

Grayson eyes her, weighing the thoughts in his head with how heavy they sit on his tongue. Finally, he asks, “How did he come to be your ally?”

Lakshmi shakes her head. “It’s not my place to say if he’s not told you. In time, I’m sure he will.”

The gentle way she says it and the way her smile loses its edge helps dull the blow of her answer – though he can hardly say he expected any different – so he nods and lets it go. There will come a time when he seeks out the truth from Nikola; Grayson knows himself well enough to not pretend he could resist asking. Not now, though. Perhaps when they’re a little less surrounded by rebel ears. Not that that’s his primary concern, considering where his own allegiances are now lying, but privacy is privacy, and if Nikola will tell him, he deserves to do so without comment from the peanut gallery.

How their partnership began is a curiosity, but why it endured, what allowed it to become so strong? That’s of just as much interest to him.

The silence between them grows longer than he likes.

“What’s the situation like outside?”

Lakshmi’s smile vanishes entirely. “To say you’ve stirred up trouble would be an understatement,” she says, shaking her head. “Increased patrols on the streets, raids on Whitechapel and slums we’ve had dealings in; your Knights are certainly making their presence known. They’ve taken to capturing our people instead of simply killing.”

Grayson feels his hackles rise. “They’re not my Knights.”

“There’s one in particular,” she goes on as though she hadn’t heard him, “a woman, completely ferocious. One of your former team members?”

For someone allegedly not looking for a fight she’s coming awful close to starting one, Grayson thinks. Her eyes are on him, sharp as a blade, and he can see it in her then, how heavily this increased scrutiny is weighing on her. He’s the easiest target, they both know that, but if he can rein his temper under control then so can she.

“Is that why you’re leaving this place? Too much attention?” he asks instead.

She sits there a moment, still watching him, her face a careful mask. It takes longer than expected but eventually, _finally_ she speaks. “Remaining in London is becoming increasingly dangerous. It’s only a matter of time until martial law is declared. Once our last remaining safe houses are vacated most of our people will be leaving the city.”

He leans forward until he can rest his arms on the table and lets her words settle in his mind. The more he thinks on them the more it nearly makes him laugh. “Of all the ways I imagined the Rebellion being driven out of London, this never entered my mind.”

“I prefer strategic retreat.”

This time he does laugh. Lakshmi holds her poker face just long enough that he thinks she’s being serious, but finally she breaks. The way she looks then is unlike any other time he’s seen her. Carefree isn’t the right word, likely won’t ever be the right word, but there’s something about her then that’s lighter, the smile on her face more genuine for all that it’s barely there.

It’s a good look for her.

The moment doesn’t last; it can’t. His own amusement fades quickly and all too soon Lakshmi’s returned to her default seriousness. There’s a faraway note to her expression that’s especially noticeable after the light-heartedness of the previous moment.

“I don’t think anyone could have foreseen this,” she says after a while, quiet, almost to herself. Her eyes slant to him then, gaze thoughtful. “You’d be welcome among us, if you so chose.”

It’s not an offer he’s expecting and he’s sure it shows. She’s good enough not to comment on it while he tries to arrange his thoughts; the way she’s watching him is pressure enough.

“A wise man would keep his allies close.”

“Are you not a wise man, sir Knight?”

“Don’t,” he says, far too quickly.

She sighs. “You’ll carry that mantle for the rest of your days, but as you wish.”

He feels now just as he did when she last mentioned his former affiliation: as though his entire body is one rough edge, exposed to every possible irritation one could wish to inflict. That Lakshmi keeps to her word and doesn’t press further is as much a frustration as it is a kindness. It’s a sore spot he doesn’t yet know how to deal with and he can’t stop giving away its existence, and sooner or later he’s going to suffer for it.

Her original offer is still unanswered. There’s not a reply he could give that would satisfy either of them right now, and he thinks she knows that, too. So he leaves it there, hanging in the aether until another time, and does his best instead to bring his raw edges under wraps.

“And what of Hastings?” His voice, mercifully, comes out calm.

“We made several assaults on his holdings during your absence. The night we infiltrated the United India House there were plans for a shipment – not as large as the one we disposed of, but still significant.”

“He went ahead with it?”

“More of his guards were present; there were no Knights on the scene.” Lakshmi gives him a knowing look then, and says, “Arrogance is easy to exploit, so long as we don’t fall into the same trap.”

Grayson shakes his head. The audacity Hastings possesses should come as no surprise and yet, somehow, he finds himself in disbelief. “And since then?”

“He’s become more reclusive, his movements more difficult to track. As far as my people know he’s still in the city.”

The words fall at his feet like something precious, a shiny bauble on a grey street corner, immediately tempting. Grayson forces himself to sit back in his chair, as though the increased space will provide him extra perspective; mostly he just uses it to get a better look at Lakshmi, who meets his stare unflinching.

“You’re providing this information rather freely,” he says slowly.

“That your mind first goes to betrayal shouldn’t surprise me, but here we are.”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“Then why such hesitation?” She tilts her head, eyes narrowed. “You think I have any illusions about your intentions? I suspect there isn’t a person alive whose disapproval would stop you. But if you do this, Grayson, you do it alone, and should any of my people suffer for it you know who I’ll hold accountable.”

She leans forward as she delivers this final warning and for every part of him that wants to call it laughable, the rest is entirely without doubt. Lakshmi means what she says, and she’ll act on it. It’s a steep enough price to pay for a shot at vengeance, not that the threat of her retribution scares him; most likely he’ll end up dead should he fail. But if he doesn’t? How can he ever be certain that her people won’t somehow catch the blame for something they’re, for once, not involved in?

How can he not take the chance, with everything laid out for him like it is?

“I thought we were past threats.”

“As did I,” she replies, and her voice is unyielding.

There’s nothing more to be said, then. The terms are there before him, clear as day: the status of his target, the potential dangers in his path, and what he stands to lose. All there is for him to do now is form his plan of attack, and there’s nothing to gain from doing that here, before a pair of all too attentive eyes. Time then to make his retreat.

He gives Lakshmi a nod and pushes back from the table. His little bedroll is practically calling him, a quiet space where he can order the thoughts already springing to life inside his head –

“Wait.”

It’s only curiosity that stops him. When he turns he finds Lakshmi lifting the tank that had sat beside her the entire time onto the table. He’d almost forgotten its existence, truth be told.

She twists the lid free and he raises an eyebrow at her.

“A peace offering?”

“A parting gift.” Lakshmi gestures towards the tank. “The way Devi tells it you need replenishing.”

That catches his attention. Grayson steps closer, peers into the dark depths of the tank. There’s no impressions he can make of the contents, no particular smell that he can pick out; the liquid sloshes gently, slowly returning to rest after its earlier movement.

He's not about to stick his hand in some mystery liquid. He’s not that curious. He does look back to Lakshmi, on the off chance she’s feeling generous, and finds her, eyes on him, fingers tracing the edges of the chain around her neck.

… Ah.

“Another of our secrets care of Sir Bors?”

If his voice comes out tighter than normal he pays it no mind.

Lakshmi’s face gives nothing away. “You’ll just have to live in suspense.”

He scoffs. The vial around his own neck comes free with little effort, and with as much care as he can, he dips the mouth into the water.

It had always been a contingency, one they’d come to rely on more with the passing of so many long years – a way of replicating the effects of Blackwater for those already part of the Order. Perhaps their most highly guarded secret was that the source was not unlimited, and needed to be used sparingly: typically for the induction of new knights. As their fight lasted ever longer and spread further across the world their need to conserve only grew, and so an alternative was devised. The most important part of the elixir was already flowing in their veins; all that was needed was a way to reproduce the initial healing effect it had provided.

By the time Grayson had joined their ranks they’d devised a solution. A knight’s blood, added to water made pure and sanctified by ancient rites, would provoke in them the same reaction the initial dose of true Blackwater had.

It’s not a foolproof solution, Grayson muses as he pulls out the now-full vial. A reliable water source is still required, or the means to convert one if nothing’s readily available. And naturally all the reserves in the world mean nothing if one takes a lethal blow with an already empty vial. Experience, and some amount of chance, still holds its own sway on the battlefield.

Lakshmi slides a knife in his direction. It’s with practiced ease that he angles the blade against the ball of his thumb, squeezing the resulting drops of blood into the vial.

With any luck it’ll last him a while.

He passes back the knife, and though she takes it from him, Lakshmi’s eyes don’t leave his face.

“Why did you spare him?”

Grayson busies himself tucking his vial away. “I’ve already told you.”

“I think you’ve told me what you believe I want to hear. I think you did the same with Nikola.”

“If my word doesn’t satisfy you that’s your problem,” he snaps. It dawns on him then: “You haven’t been to see him, have you?”

She raises an eyebrow at that. He could answer the question for her, he’s sure; he’s spent enough time in this place, watching everything and everyone, knowing where they’ve been and when. He wants to hear it from her though.

When she finally shakes her head he almost laughs.

“You ought to, before you leave. See how well your orders have been respected.” He nods towards the tank before heading for the door. “Thanks for the drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A page](https://imgur.com/BK3LtVH) of the Blackwater Archives confirms Grayson's so fucked up at the start of the game because he's going through Blackwater withdrawals, which means the knights have to be consuming it on the regular in order to stay healthy. Which means either the Order have an ocean of the stuff somewhere, or they have to have some means of making more so their knights aren't constantly falling to pieces. That's my interpretation, at least. 
> 
> Provided you don't fuck up any combat sections the game forces you to drink on like three scripted occasions. We don't ever see anyone refill their vials, but it has to happen at some point, right? You can get away with not explaining that in a game if you feel like it - the Blackwater is as much a mechanic as it is anything else - but trying to do that here just set off an alarm in my head that constantly screamed CONTINUITY ERROR at me. And since "water that magically replenishes itself as well as heals wounds and prolongs life" wasn't a particularly satisfying conclusion for me ... this is what I ended up with.
> 
> I do have fun trying to apply wider, "real world" logic to in-game mechanics, even when it makes me want to tear my hair out.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless love and gratitude to everyone who's ever read this fic, ever left kudos or comments or any sort of indication that you've given it a go or found something to like about it. It means more to me than I could ever say.
> 
> Chapter first posted 4 September 2018.

The time to act comes just a few days later.

Knowing that his suspicions were correct only makes the signs easier to spot; rebels continue to make their exit from the safe house, enough of their number remaining to maintain a fighting force but still ever depleting, and with their shrinking number goes much of the stockpile that fills the space. The room feel overexposed all of a sudden, and the relative lack of people strangely ominous. Funny that he’d come to miss a time when nearly all eyes were on him.

Nikola stays behind. For every intent look and hushed word from the others he only shakes his head and delves deeper into whatever piece of work currently possesses him. He never gives anything away, but if he has an idea of what Grayson’s planning it wouldn’t be a surprise.

Devi disappears, as she’s wont to do, sometime during the night before. He doesn’t see her go, and she doesn’t say anything to him on what ends up being the last time he sees her, and for as many times as it’s happened in the past he has to force himself to ignore the thrum of warning that travels up his spine whenever he thinks about it.

He’s not worried. He doesn’t need to be. She’ll be fine.

Lakshmi takes her turn hours later. He’s always been able to rely on his instincts to wake him up in moments of uncertainty or danger, and this time is no different; he’s awake before he’s even aware of it, eyes closed but alert to everything around him. Sleep is unlikely to return to him now so he relents, pulls his pocket watch free and squints into the dim. It’s early, before sunrise even. Someone will be awake – someone always is – but the awkwardness of sitting with a stranger is neither appealing nor worth the effort of getting up. He can lay here for a while yet. No harm done.

He’s managed to lull himself into that odd space half between awake and dreaming when he hears it. Quiet breath, the soft rustling of fabric against fabric, and footfalls just deliberate enough to make out.

Grayson doesn’t move. A moment later there’s the light curl of fingers around his upper arm.

“Even with all our disagreements I hope you know how glad I am to have met you, Grayson.”

It’s Lakshmi, her voice whisper quiet. Even through all the layers of his clothes her hand is warm. He doesn’t shift to look at her.

“My offer still stands. Should you wish to join us, Nikola knows our destination.”

And then she’s gone, truly soundless this time. He lays there for a long while, long enough for sounds of life to start filtering through the space and into his ears, long enough for his mind to start to wonder if it’d all been some strange imagining. But when he ventures out he finds the only face he truly recognises is Nikola’s, and the rebels remaining are particularly on edge.

Their forces are scattered, their command en route to god knows where. This’ll be the best chance he gets, both to leave the safe house without drawing attention, and, should the worst happen, minimize any potential fallout he might cause.

He’s not desperate – or mad enough – to go out now; there’s no choice but to wait for the cover of darkness. As though time itself knows how eager he is to depart the hours drag by, and it takes all he has in him to not go stir crazy. Every step of the plan he runs through, then runs through again, and should he feel the urge to check his watch that desire is swiftly quashed.

Despite all its effort against him the world turns on just as it should, and the long-awaited hour of his departure finally approaches. It’s as he’s sitting there, all but counting down the minutes, that Nikola sidles up.

“May I sit with you a moment, Sir Galahad?”

There’s a bundle tucked under his arm that he holds to tightly, and Grayson’s barely done nodding before he’s sitting down beside him. He places himself to the side of Grayson that keeps him most concealed; anybody wanting to see what they were up to would have to be standing almost directly before them.

“I have some provisions you might find useful,” he says, and though his voice is light-hearted he still only speaks loud enough for the two of them to hear.

“I won’t even ask how you knew.”

“That might be for the best.”

With that he begins undoing his bundle, taking great care with every motion. There’s more than one thing inside this parcel of goods but Grayson only gets a glimpse before something’s handed his way. It’s a monocular, near identical to the one created for Lafayette; the outside still shows the signs of wear and tear, but when he brings it to his eye Grayson finds it just as he did then, and in perfect working order.

“You constructed this during our time here?”

Nikola’s nodding as he brings the gadget down, and Grayson stares at the little invention. So many parts and pieces, all put together by this one man … He can’t help but shake his head in wonder.

“Your skill never ceases to amaze.”

Nikola dips his head, giving a one shouldered shrug. “Lady Lakshmi had the shell of one among her possessions; I only used what materials I could find. You still have your current inverter?”

Grayson blinks at the sudden shift in topic, and turns to sort through the small pile of items still stacked beside his bedroll. They were things he was either content to leave behind or hadn’t yet come to a decision about bringing; if Nikola was showing any interest in them then surely that decided which camp they belonged in.

He passes over the invention, and the way Nikola’s attention is immediately captured is entirely too endearing.

He sits and tries not to be too obvious in his watching as Nikola tinkers. The man's focus is immense, and he makes little noises of intrigue and frustration as he works. Grayson hasn’t had the pleasure of watching him work, truly work, in a very long time; though an abbreviated version of the process, this still goes a long way.

Eventually Nikola blows out a long breath, a displeased look overtaking his features.

“There’s not enough time for a full re-calibration.” He passes it back, rather reluctantly. “Let us hope you have no real use for it.”

The warmth of familiarity is still close under his skin, and it’s enough to take him away from the seriousness of the here and now. Joyful would never be the word he’d choose to describe himself, at present or in the years preceding, but the past seems endlessly brighter for all there is to compare against it now. This moment is as close a taste he’ll get to the real thing – the way things used to be – and he’s glad for every second of it.

He cocks his head, feels the shadow of a smile creeping to life.

“So little faith in your own designs, Nikola?”

“I know the man who plans to use them. He has an unnatural talent for throwing himself into danger.”

Grayson huffs out a laugh, suitably chastised, but Nikola’s not done.

“Case in point,” he says, unravelling his bundle further and revealing a few old friends: Grayson’s revolver, and his and Alastair’s blades. He shoots Grayson a look. “Tell me you weren’t planning on doing this empty handed.”

It’s his turn to give a shrug. “I thought I’d improvise.”

The truth isn’t anywhere near as offhanded as it likely sounds. He’s no fool, despite what his detractors might say – or what some of his previous actions might suggest – he’s not about to walk the streets, let alone stage an infiltration of a protected estate, without a weapon. The rebels guarding the entrance are appropriately armed, and he was already going to have to make his way past them; if he was going to pick up armament from anywhere, it’d be there.

From the earliest stages of planning his expectation has been to fight his way out, hopefully with as little bloodshed as possible. Never did he think he’d be handed his means of defence, or that it’d come from Nikola of all people.

Nikola, of course, is privy to nothing but what Grayson’s said to him, and so as Grayson comes back to himself he hears them: the curses and disbelief, exclamations muttered under Nikola’s breath but still entirely audible to Grayson’s ears. The concern is touching, in its own way.

“Come, Nikola, what else have you for me?” he prompts gently when there’s nothing else forthcoming.

Nikola blusters a few moments longer but eventually he extricates the final piece, handing it over with great care. It’s a communicator. Grayson frowns, reaching instinctively for his shoulder, but no, the device he’d previously been using is still there. Strange … why then …?

“I’ve been refining the frequencies,” Nikola starts, no doubt catching the look on his face. “As much as I could, at least, with the equipment I have here. The difference may not even be noticeable, but … theoretically, you should be able to transmit greater distances than before.”

The one on his shoulder comes away easily enough; holding the two next to each other he thinks they might as well be duplicates. If Nikola claims a distinction between them, however, he’ll certainly take his word for it.

He’s still speaking: “You’ll be on a separate channel of course, in the case of there being any unexpected listeners. Some degree of proximity will be required, though that too can be accounted for –”

“Proximity?” Grayson cuts in. “You can’t be suggesting what I think.”

Nikola’s jaw works for a moment. It’s clear he’s building up to something, becomes even more so when he shifts to face Grayson properly. When he speaks it comes out all in a rush:

“I’d be following Lady Lakshmi’s footsteps. The route would be patrolled by the Rebellion even now –”

“Your life isn’t worth the risk, Nikola. Stay here.”

“There are so few people here. Once you leave … You truly believe this place will still be safe?”

“Safer than the streets, certainly.” He lays a hand on Nikola’s shoulder, squeezes gently. “It’s one less distraction if I know you’re here and out of harm’s way. And you’re the only person I’d trust to keep an eye on Alastair in my absence.”

Nikola’s expression doesn’t ease the way he’d hoped. Instead it only worsens, twisting into something pained; he tangles his hands together and doesn’t look Grayson’s way.

“I won’t be his keeper, Sir Galahad.”

Those quiet words carry as much impact as though he’d shouted them, and it’s made all the worse by the fact that Nikola still won’t look at him. Unease worms its way through Grayson’s insides, the thought of Nikola somehow both misinterpreting him and cutting straight to the heart of the matter uncomfortably clear in his mind. Having a trustworthy source to watch Alastair was only a bonus; of course Nikola’s safety was of greater importance to him.

Surely he knows that?

“I wouldn’t ask that of you, my friend,” Grayson says after a long silence. It gets no reaction from Nikola; he holds back a sigh and goes on: “If this plays out the way I intend you won’t need to. But should something happen to me you’re the one who ought to determine his fate.”

“Then I will hope for your safe return,” Nikola replies.

He could use the grip he has to forcibly turn him; he stops himself. Instead Grayson gives his shoulder one last squeeze and sets about putting to order his newly acquired bits and pieces, making sure to keep his weapons well concealed. There’s nothing more to be done after that. One final check of his pocket watch confirms the time and he rises to his feet.

“I’ll keep an ear out for you.”

He’s nearly to the door when he hears something behind him. It’s curiosity and a little bit of hope that makes him glance back.

Nikola has gathered up his bundle once again and still sits where he’d been left, but now he’s actually looking up at Grayson.

“Take care, my friend.”

The conflict that had been plain on his face isn’t gone, but it is diminished. That’s more than he could’ve asked for.

All he can do, can allow himself to do, is nod. He’s out of the room without a second glance.

It might’ve been a swifter exit had he not seen that one open door. As it is he can’t resist slipping across the hall to poke his head inside the room where Alastair sits contained. The customary two guards are still present, though they pay him no mind, and Alastair himself has his back to the door.

He doesn’t go in. He can’t spare the time, and there isn’t anything of value he’d take away from speaking with the man. Besides, for all he knows Alastair is asleep.

It’s an anticlimax of an ending to their story; a trailing off where there should be a definitive stop. A quiet, frustrating part of his mind springs to life then, reminding him that this could very well be the last time he sees Alastair, and should he fail, the conclusion he seeks will be lost forever.

He buries that thought as deep as he can, and with one last look at Alastair, he’s gone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italicised section in this chapter is quoted from its source and does not belong to me. I'm sure you'll recognise its origin once you get there.
> 
> Chapter first posted 18 September 2018.

“That time again, eh, Knight?”

The two rebels guarding the hidden entrance are still at their post. Grayson nods to the one who’d called out to him, and the other turns to activate the mechanism this side of the passage. It’s a well-worn dance by now and Grayson hopes that familiarity will play to his advantage; his newly returned weapons feel conspicuous under his coat, like one wrong move will expose them and give his plan away.

The wall slides open and it’s a sound Grayson’s sure he’ll hear in his dreams for a very long time.

“Come on then, let’s get this over with,” the first rebel says, and gestures into the waiting darkness.

Grayson leads the way. He could walk this path with his eyes closed if he so wished – it’s not so far from what he’s doing now, in all truth – but still he takes his time, keeps up the illusion of routine. He doesn’t quite trust his luck not to abandon him in his time of need.

Out of the passage and he steps aside for his rebel escort, follows him through the dark and silence of the building. The exit they’re headed for opens into a small walled-off yard that connects to the street behind, and many a time he’s found himself wondering how many rebels have made their way through here, and how often those in the neighbouring buildings have turned their eyes away.

It’s a chilly night, and the clouds overhead are heavy with the promise of rain. Grayson pulls his arms around himself and watches his breath fog the air before him.

In one corner of the yard stands the basis for his excursion, and the only reason he’s seen the sky at all during his time here. Devi’s warning had lasted, in spirit if not in letter; it hadn’t been long before an addendum was added, and he learned the new boundaries of his stay. Once an evening, if he so chose, providing all was quiet and he was accompanied, he could venture outside and answer nature’s call.

A genuine show of trust from Lakshmi, or had a certain inventor begged favours on his behalf? At the time he could only guess. Both options were backwards, all things considered, but between a pot and an outhouse the decision had been easy. Fresh air and a change in scenery went a long way.

He casts his gaze around the yard, settling on his route in moments. That _this_ is how it’s all worked out beggars belief, but he knows what people say about gifts and horses’ mouths.

“Haven’t got all day here, knight,” the rebel says, then huffs a quiet laugh to himself.

If he hadn’t already been set on what needed to be done then this, he thinks, this would have convinced him.

Grayson gives him a nod, makes as though to move towards the outhouse –

And pivots immediately, crashing his fist into the rebel’s jaw. The man staggers hard, the sound of impact less catching than the surprised and pained _oof_ that escapes him, but Grayson pays it no real mind as he grabs his shoulder and pulls them bodily together. The rebel’s back to his front, he wraps his arm around the man’s neck and squeezes.

There’s a struggle, but of course there is; he’d have been disappointed in Lakshmi’s choice of recruits if there wasn’t. Between Grayson’s unexpected assault and the strength of his hold there’s no way out, nothing for him but to wait for the inevitable as it slowly, eventually happens; the man turns sluggish in his arms, then still entirely, and Grayson gives it a few more seconds to ensure he’s well and truly out.

He never learned their names, he finds himself thinking as he stands there. There’d been some rotation of rebels guarding the hidden passage, but this man and the one downstairs were the two that acted as his escort most often. Most of the rebels are nameless faces to him – familiar faces, but nameless all the same – but with these two it feels strange, impersonal in a way that doesn’t sit right with him.

If he takes a moment to shuffle to the door, wedge it open, and set the man down against the wall inside, well. That’s his concern, nobody else’s. His partner will find him soon enough.

Without a backwards glance he crosses the yard and scales the wall, and then he’s out, onto the streets and the rebel stronghold nothing but a fading thought. The streets are wet from some recent storm and already he can feel the cold settling under his clothes; the smell of rain, usually so refreshing, now carries with it a bitter chill. His head is clear in seconds.

He feels as though he’s an initiate again, every passing detail birthing a distracting thought to go with it, and if the situation weren’t so serious he might have found some amusement in that. Perhaps the isolation of the previous days is to blame, the sudden return of new stimuli a feast for his bored senses. Whatever the reason, he can’t afford to be letting his thoughts wander such, not with so much at stake, and so he forces them back into whatever corner of his mind they sprang out of.

… He’s sure he’s been colder than this before anyway, for god’s sake, why is his mind so _fixated_ –

The streets are entirely too quiet. He recalls what Lakshmi had said about the city’s state only a few days prior; if London wasn’t under martial law then, he’s almost certain it is now. He can’t pretend it doesn’t change his plan. His intended route was always the one most shadowed, but even in the dead of night a drunk causing a scene in the streets would be an invaluable diversion. Now, with the threat of martial law hanging over his head, what had been an admittedly unreliable strategy becomes even less so. More and more he’s aware of just how alone he is on this quest, and just how easily everything could fall apart, and exactly how it’ll blow back on those he cares about if it does, and –

And now here he is again letting an entirely new set of distractions take up valuable space in his brain. What is this nonsense?

Grayson slips around the corner of one particularly dark street. It’s quiet enough that he can allow himself to stop, close his eyes and breathe in deep, use the cold that had so preoccupied him to help find his centre.

“Damn it all,” he mutters to himself.

Every breath he takes in he holds in his chest for a while, using this moment of stillness to be aware of his whole body, every flex of muscle and shiver against the cold. There’s a tremor to his hands, he realises dimly, and curls them quickly into fists.

It’s not fear. He’s certain of that. For all that his mind is flush with concerns his will to act hasn’t abandoned him. No, this is something else, different yet familiar all the same, and as he stands there feeling his knuckles strain and his thoughts tumble over themselves he finds it all starts shifting into place.

It’s a hell of a time for him to ponder his current isolation, though it certainly fits the theme of late. The sudden reminiscence of his earliest days in the Order takes on new meaning in light of this realisation. He could weather distractions in his youth because he knew there was always someone at his back; even upon taking missions alone, the knowledge that help was only a call away – that help would _come if he called_ – was always present at the back of his mind. A reassurance. A reminder that he was part of something bigger than himself.

All gone.

What does she think of him? And Lafayette, what of him? All his former comrades, men and women he thought of as family at one point or another: do their thoughts darken at the memory of him?

The rebels have made their promises, and for all that their interests are aligned he still doesn’t feel as though he’s part of them. He’s not sure that he ever will, to be honest. For all that Lakshmi’s reasoning is sound, that he’s here alone sticks under his skin in a way he can’t ignore. The Order had been his family. Everything else are just shadows trying to stand in their place.

But if he can do this … if he’s successful, then it’s a problem he won’t have to worry over for much longer.

Grayson allows himself one final breath, one last moment of centring himself, before he pushes off the wall and back into the street.

A few blocks down he scales a building to get a better view of his surroundings. As the rebels weren’t exactly forthcoming with their information he still technically doesn’t know where he is, much to his chagrin. He could hazard a guess, of course, but short of knocking on someone’s door he’s not going to know for certain. Some verticality may help with that; if nothing else he’ll have the chance to spot any threat that might be lying in wait.

He must be somewhere on the edge of slum territory, he thinks, looking over the tightly clustered buildings. That the rebels were able to operate with so little interference suggests that much. The way the streets grow tidier and more organised the further along he travels is the other big hint. Like most every other city he’s visited, ‘clean’ isn’t the first word he’d use to describe London – isn’t even the second word – but the difference between the well-off areas and those less so is most definitely noticeable. The police force is nowhere near as prevalent out here as he’d expected it to be, though they are still present: not too far away he spots the tell-tale flicker of a lantern, hears the disgruntled grumblings of the officers as they make their rounds.

He might as well stay up here. It’s a good idea, better than he originally gave it credit for; the buildings sit close enough together that traversing them will be easy, and the benefits of high ground are already well established. He’d be foolish not to take every advantage open to him.

His communicator crackles to life then, and he absolutely doesn’t startle at the sound.

“– hear me? Come in, Sir –”

“I hear you, Nikola, loud and clear,” he replies, keeping his voice lowered as a precaution. “Is something the matter?”

There’s a pause, long enough that Grayson starts to straighten up in concern, but then Nikola’s voice sounds again, “Everything appears to be in working order thus far. Good. I shall re-establish radio silence for the time being. Be safe.”

The communicator falls silent as quickly as it’d activated, and Grayson just stands there, bewildered. Only Nikola, he thinks, and shakes his head with a small, fond smile.

If he’s even remotely in the vicinity of where he thinks then he’s still quite a ways from where he wants to be. He needs to move, use the hours of darkness while he has them – not that it should take him that long, but these days it’s safer not to presume anything. Fate’s a fickle mistress lately, more so than she used to be it seems, and he’s less inclined to rely on her than ever.

So he moves. It’s not quite a sprint, much as his instincts urge him to _bolt_ the longer he goes. The sound of his feet pounding against the rooftops seems impossibly loud, like every racing step will shake the occupants awake, send them peering out their windows and to his discovery. He’s not that loud, he knows he’s not, but he can’t stop the paranoia edging into his thoughts, especially as he travels further into the city. Guard patrols appear more frequently; he has to slow down far more than he’d like, take greater care with every jump and climb so as not to make a sound – in one instance he’s left clinging to the side of a townhouse, breath held as tightly as his grip on the ledge as an unexpected pair passes below.

An odd thought finds him then, as he pulls himself up and continues on his way: that with all this prowling around rooftops in the dark he feels more like the things he hunts than himself. It’s not a pleasant idea, and he disregards it quickly.

Soon enough and entirely predictably the heavens burst, and he finds himself with a side order of Drenched to go with his main course of Already Freezing. The rain slows him down even further, though in this case he can bear it easier; better to take a little more time than go slipping off the edge of a building. Of all the things out of his control London’s weather is most eager to remind him of the fact, but also the one he can handle best.

The city is strange with so little noise to further its atmosphere. Without all its din and clutter London is a shadow of itself, and he feels robbed of a sense; he could always rely on the sounds of the city to help him discover what the rest of his senses might otherwise have missed, and it’s uncomfortable to be without. With any luck it won’t be for long.

He comes to a stop as a familiar vista, a view he’s been inching towards building by building, finally opens to him. At his left the Thames winds through the city, a dark ribbon carving the landscape wide, but that’s not what draws his eye. There, far across the way, illuminated and unavoidable, sits the Palace of Westminster.

He reaches back to his communicator, eyes not once leaving the great building. “Are you still with me, my friend?”

“I’m here,” comes the response after a lengthy pause, “though if you’re where I think you are perhaps I should express my disapproval of this business more vehemently.”

There’s no time for him to ponder Nikola’s awareness of his location, as he goes on:

“You cannot truly be considering this. Surely not? It would be beyond reckless, worse even than your initial plan. If I thought this was an action you’d consider taking I would never have offered my aid.

_“Sir Galahad. The whole of London is looking for you. We mustn’t delay! Sir Galahad! Can you hear me? Sir Galahad!”_

_“Be at ease Nikola. All is fine.”_

_“So you say my friend ... The council has declared Martial Law throughout the city. There is no telling when the authorities will decide to mount an offensive. Now is not the time for heroics. I would advise we follow Lady Lakshmi’s lead and leave the city.”_

_“I’ll join you shortly. And don't you know … I’m Galahad no more …”_

For all the drama of the statement he feels from the moment he’s said the words as though a very particular weight has been lifted from him. The raw edges are still there, probably will be for some time – Lakshmi wasn’t wrong when she suggested the title would follow him – but being able to admit it to himself, to say it out loud, helps smooth them out somewhat.

Nikola’s worries, though overblown, are still understandable; in another version of events he might have contemplated exactly the actions Nikola presumed him to be taking. But no, not in this life. The time will come for him to return to Westminster and confront his former brethren, but it’s not now. There’s somewhere more important he needs to be tonight.

There’s no response from the communicator. Whether Nikola’s ended transmission or is still present and just staying silent, he’s not sure. Either way he lets him be. They’ve both said what they needed to, and then some.

Perhaps it’s because his goal is so close that the journey to the United India House seems to take so long. Certainly it’s not his imagination: patrols are far more plentiful, United India guards joining their comrades in the police force on the streets, and it isn’t long before they’re the more prominent power visible. It slows him down, of course; he’s made it this far, he’s not about to let impatience get the better of him. With every step feeling like it’s a journey of its own, when the boundary of Hastings’ estate finally appears he very nearly sighs.

The sense of déjà vu is almost overwhelming, looking down at the House on a cold, wet night and planning an infiltration. That he’s alone is less of a burden than the knowledge that the last time he was here, everything was different.

Grayson frowns, banishing the thought. This is no time to be ruminating on past failings. He has no easy means of entry this time round, and no one to watch his back … Perhaps he should’ve asked Lakshmi which route she took, or if Alastair’s contact had any spare crossbows on hand. He can just imagine the reactions both queries would provoke.

The security isn’t to as high a level as he’d expect – it feels like he saw more on the streets than here – but he knows better than to trust it. The dangers he can’t see will kill him just as easily as those he can.

The building he stands on faces one side of the House, its grand façade off to his right; beyond that, the United India Square and greater Mayfair sprawl into the dark. The streets are as empty as they are wide and he doesn’t fancy the idea of crossing them, not until he’s sure – more or less – that he’s not about to get his head blown off by some lucky patrolman. Every now and then he spots one passing through the glow of a streetlight and he finds himself wondering exactly what story fills their head, what threat they believe they’re here to ward against.

Grayson peers over the edge, pathing out his way in. Down the side of the building, to the mouth of the alley, pause until the first guard passes, out along the edge –

A door creaks open somewhere behind him.

He’s over the side in a heartbeat, chest pressed flat against the rough stonework, fingers digging into whatever purchase they can find as he listens. Whoever it is, they’re not even remotely attempting to conceal themselves, steady footsteps audible clear across the roof; there’s an explosive sigh, and then a rock skitters across the open space.

“Nice kick,” a voice says. Male, amused.

Two of them?

“Come on, what’d you expect?”

“Piss off.”

Two of them.

“Are we done? We’ve wasted enough time on this already.”

“It wasn’t a _waste_ –”

“It was a tip from some busybody housewife –”

“Who saw something _moving over the rooftops_ …!”

Grayson tries not to cringe. His stealth approach needs work, apparently.

“And now we’ve checked the rooftops, and what did we find?” There’s a pause, like the speaker’s waiting for an answer, then: “Precisely. Shit all. You might not be satisfied with that, but I sure as hell am.”

Another sigh, and the scuffing of shoes against the ground – only it’s getting louder, and Grayson grits his teeth and imagines becoming one with the wall as whoever it is stops somewhere above him. Curiosity, ever present, urges him to sneak a glance at these two interlopers, but he knows better than to act on it. Instead he eases one hand off the wall and settles it against the hilt of his blade and tries not to ponder, should it come down to it, the logistics of fighting for his life from the side of a building.

“Why are you even bothering?” the second man calls, interrupting the silence and Grayson’s preparations both. “You get nothing out of all this effort.”

“Look mate, it’s – just ‘cause you’ve got no ambition doesn’t mean I’ve got none. They see I’ve got initiative, and then maybe –”

“Come off it already. Like your initiative matters when Hastings’s buggered off and isn’t here to see it.”

His head snaps up. Hastings has _what_ –

“Come on, let’s go.”

“But –”

“ _Now_ , Wedge.”

If the door didn’t squeal so loudly on being closed he thinks he might’ve missed it entirely, he’s so caught off guard. Instinct keeps him hidden for the time it would take for them to return but then he’s back on the roof, crouched low against the ledge. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe in, deep and slow.

Hastings isn’t here.

How can he not be here?

Grayson turns, peers over the edge. It’s a clever trap, if it’s true; in any other situation the increase in guards would have no other meaning, simply an obstacle between him and his goal. Now, though …

He slumps back down against the ledge, buries his hands in his hair and clenches tight. A few bright sharp moments of pain and he relents, reaches for his shoulder.

“Come in, Nikola.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that we're officially past the last known point of canon! From the moment I started writing I knew I'd eventually have to hit and tie into the [mid credits scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7XhLcxixT0), and now here we are. Hopefully I did so with some degree of believability. It's a fun little milestone to reach, I have to admit.
> 
> Wedge and his partner are intended to be a nod to Biggs and Wedge, who are, of course, two supporting characters from the Star Wars universe. More relevant to this medium, however, they're also [a pair](http://finalfantasy.wikia.com/wiki/Biggs_and_Wedge) of [recurring characters](http://finalfantasy.wikia.com/wiki/Biggs_and_Wedge_\(Final_Fantasy_VIII\)) across various Final Fantasy games! So their names here are mainly in reference to that. ... I may have been watching a fair amount of FF8 speedruns while writing this chapter, idk.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter first posted 2 October 2018.

“Nikola, do you read me?”

Grayson forces his fingers to ease away from where they’re threatening to dig into the communicator. The last thing he needs is to accidentally crush some delicate instrument in his agitation and he doesn’t trust his luck to hold, not with the way this excursion’s going. Not when every call he’s made has gone unanswered, and every moment he spends waiting feels like it’s dragging into an eternity.

“Are you there, Nikola?”

He tries to tell himself it hasn’t been that long. Truly, he does. The dead air only makes it harder to ignore his thoughts, treacherous mind calling back _proximity_ and _following Lady Lakshmi’s footsteps_ in resounding clarity.

For god’s sake, they didn’t even agree on a rendezvous point should something happen. What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all?

His gaze for a moment lands on the door across the way, shut since his two unexpected visitors left. There’s no guarantee they’ll stay gone, and the longer he lingers here the greater his risk of discovery. The guard patterns could’ve changed in the time he’s been hunkered down here and he’d have no idea –

And then his communicator crackles to life and his pulse leaps.

“Nikola?”

“I’m here,” comes the reply, after one more long moment in limbo.

All the breath in him rushes out in an instant, and it takes him a second to get it back.

“It’s good to hear your voice, my friend. Is all well?”

“… In a manner of speaking,” he says. “Is your endeavour finished?”

Grayson frowns. Something’s not quite right here. Nikola sounds distracted, speaking in a rush, only without the excited tones that usually accompanies such speed.

“In a manner of speaking,” he echoes. “I ought to make it back before dawn –”

“No! Sir Gala – _Grayson_ , I must ask you, if you can – meet me elsewhere.”

“Nikola –”

“Euston train yard. I’ll wait as long as I can, but the sooner the better.”

“ _Tell me what’s happened –_ ”

“Soon, I swear. Please, be safe until then.”

His noise of protest is cut off in more ways than one as Nikola ends the transmission. It’s a strange mix of concern and anger that fills him then, and he has to make a conscious effort to unclench his jaw before they hear his teeth grinding from the street below.

Euston station isn’t far – it’s closer than the journey he took to make it here – but under the circumstances even a trip across the street would feel dangerous. Not that he’s dissuaded by it, no, not when it’s something involving Nikola and his safety: it’s not in the realm of possibility for him to decide otherwise.

The guards are still following their patrol routes; he’s safe to slip away. And for all that time is of the essence Grayson can’t resist taking one last look at the United India House, a statement in big, bold print: so close and yet so far.

Only a temporary setback, he vows; no matter the obstacle he’s going to find Hastings.

As soon as he has his bearings he’s on his way, keeping to the rooftops as before. It feels good to be moving again, even if he still needs to be as vigilant; far off to his left, hovering somewhere over what must be Regent’s Park, he can only just make out the shape of a Sentinel through the fog of rain. The guard patrols continue as well, though they naturally fall off in abundance the further he moves from Mayfair.

The grand entrance of Euston station draws his eye as soon as he’s within distance of it. The arch is unmistakable, though for all its splendour seems strangely out of place amongst the surrounding buildings. He wonders how long it’ll last.

Nikola had specified the train yard, and it’s certainly the safest of all their options, but also the most out of reach. He can see the long-reaching roofs that cover the platforms; somewhere beyond the place they end the tracks stretch out into the darkness, a path out of the city just waiting to be walked.

So long as he can get there.

He drops back down to ground level to make his traversal. The rain, once a steady fall, has eased to a fine mist, though the cloud cover remains, hanging dark and heavy overhead. It holds the oncoming dawn at bay for just a little while longer, and he appreciates it now more than ever as he sneaks across the street. He keeps the station on his right, the outside of the building extending further than he can see; on his left, the next building over, and his possible escape route.

Even this early the sounds of work reach his ears, the gears of industry ever turning; he’d seen regular station guards and police both in his reconnaissance, but timed his approach to avoid them. Now all he needs is for the station hands to be appropriately distracted by their duties.

He slows and drops to a crouch as he reaches the mostly open-air platforms. The sconces are lit, casting a soft, small glow over parts of the space; with the wet ground it makes things shimmer, like something out of a dream. The station is a large one, with several tracks to each platform, but for the moment the space is cut through by the presence of a steam engine, multiple carriages long. Much of the noise he’d heard is coming from here, the rowdy engineers at the front of the locomotive and the station hands at the rear, busy loading goods into the cars.

Grayson eyes them for a few moments, then reaches for his communicator. “I’m here.”

“Quietly now,” Nikola replies, voice less than a whisper, “fourth car.”

He counts them out quickly, and as his gaze lands on the fourth car he sees its side door begin to slide, almost imperceptibly, open. It’s not so far across the way: if he hurries he should make it. The engineers are no problem – he hasn’t seen one of them leave the train since he arrived, actually – but the station hands are more active. He waits until they’re busy loading freight to make his crossing, moving as quickly as he can whilst ducking and trying to be silent, and with every step he’s expecting a cry to go up, his presence discovered –

But it never comes, and he slips into the car without a sound. Nikola is closing the door before he’s even fully inside, as quietly as he can manage; Grayson’s move to help is rebuffed as soon as he makes it, so he steps back and lets Nikola handle things. Once the door is tightly closed – though not locked – Nikola turns to him, one finger raised to his lips pre-emptively, and beckons him deeper inside.

The light is low, but he can see enough that he doesn’t bump into or knock over anything. The crates are large and non-descript, and if there’s any hint as to their contents, he can’t see it. Even with the cargo sectioned off as it is it’s still a squeeze as he follows Nikola towards the back; they’ll be well concealed, certainly, but also uncomfortably boxed in. Figuratively and literally.

“We won’t be departing for some time,” Nikola says, levering himself down to the floor and settling in. “We will have to be quiet.”

Grayson wedges himself into the space left open to him and tries not to let his tension show.

“Tell me what happened.”

Nikola’s gaze is firmly on the floor between them, his hands turning over each other fretfully. “It – it won’t be what you want to hear, but please try to remain –”

“ _Nikola!_ ”

“Alastair escaped,” he spits out, finally.

It’s a good thing they’re in such close quarters, he thinks distantly. Otherwise he’d probably act on the urge to move and rage he feels inside himself now.

He clenches his fists instead, and grits out, “How?”

“I didn’t see it happen.” Nikola looks entirely miserable. “From what I understand he attacked one of the rebels when they came to give him the days’ meal. Alastair used him as a hostage and once he had what he needed, he vanished.”

“But they pursued him? They know his location?”

Grayson knows the answer before Nikola says a word, even before he finishes asking his questions, and the look on his friend’s face is all the confirmation he needs. He has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, hold the breath that’s in his chest until he feels less likely to shake apart from anger; it’s not gone when he finally looks at Nikola again, but it’s closer to a simmer than boiling over.

“You’re safe, at least. What of the rebels? Did he …?”

“Alive, mostly unharmed; their pride was wounded most of all, I think. Alastair stripped one of them of his clothes. But he took no weapons, and released his hostage as soon as his way out was clear.” Nikola spreads his hands, palms up. “We could not risk remaining at the safe house with his escape, and so now we are here.”

“And let me guess: ‘here’ is where following Lakshmi’s footsteps leads. This is her way out of the city.”

“It isn’t the only one, but … yes.”

Something occurs to him then, and Grayson frowns. “Where were you that you didn’t see his escape?”

Nikola’s gaze drops to the floor again. “I was – I went up to the roof. To make sure I could contact you. I was still close by. There was something of a commotion when he left, enough that I heard … so I came back.”

He doesn’t know exactly how much of that he believes, but there’s little he can do about it now. Nikola _did_ make it here without injury: he supposes it could be worse.

Alastair, though. He’s out there somewhere, tethered to nothing but his desires and how far he wishes to go to enact them. The question then becomes: what does he _want_?

The thought of him roaming the streets sits uncomfortably with Grayson. It’s not freedom, not the way most would think of it – Alastair will still have to keep to the shadows, if for different reasons than Grayson – but the image of him disappearing into the night, escaping every possible consequence …

It’s enough to once again set his anger alight.

He spared the rebels when he had no need to, and didn’t hunt down Nikola – he can chalk that much up in Alastair’s favour. Not that it evens the scales out at all; not that it matters, when he’s likely never to see the man again … but he can’t quiet the voice that reminds him of these things.

There’s a touch against his arm. He blinks and Nikola’s face comes into view, and his expression buries all thought of Alastair.

“What of your affairs?” Nikola asks, quietly, carefully. “Lord Hastings, is he …?”

Grayson bares his teeth; salt in another wound. “He wasn’t there.”

Nikola looks ready to bombard him with every question he has, but something must change his mind. Grayson is unspeakably thankful for that. In time he’ll tell the whole story – preferably to everyone at the same time, so he only relives the disappointment once – but not now. The most important part of the tale’s been conveyed as it is.

They sit in silence for a while. Nikola seems lost in thought and Grayson is loath to disturb him, so instead he turns his focus outward, listening for the sounds of the men at work outside.

He can’t pretend he hasn’t been waiting for that door to slide open, no matter how softly they’d been speaking.

For all that he’s expecting a fight to fall upon them at every turn it becomes a strangely meditative process, listening to the motions of the station hands. There’s a consistency to their movements, their bawdy back-and-forths, and even if he can’t quite allow himself to let his guard down he also finds himself relaxing far more than he expects, or intends.

He’s grateful too that it gives Nikola a moment of respite. The man’s made his own journey, faced his own dangers to make it here, and even if he’s likely to downplay his experiences Grayson knows better. He made sure Nikola got his rest back at the docks, when things were far direr, and again at the safe house; he’ll make sure he gets some now.

How much time has passed, he can’t say, but he notices immediately when Nikola straightens up, far more alert than he was a moment ago.

“It shouldn’t be much longer now,” he says, more to himself than anything.

“Where are we headed?”

“One of the rebel bases outside the city.” Nikola pauses, then turns to him. “Liverpool.”

His mind begins to work in an instant, running on instinct through possible dangers, safe houses, and reasons for choosing such a place to retreat to. And all the while in the background he hears the noise start to shift, quiet gradually falling away to the unmistakeable clatter of shoes on concrete, conversations in low tones and the final checks by the station hands.

There’s a noise at the door, and Grayson tenses immediately, hand already moving to draw out his blade. But the loud _clunk_ that follows doesn’t end with the door sliding open: instead he realises it’s the outside bolt sliding home and being locked into place. Their luck has held for the time being.

A great whistle rings out, and a shudder rocks the entire car, and everything below and around them begins to shudder as the train finally, _finally_ starts to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grayson & Nikola best bros 4 lyfeeee
> 
> The [Euston station arch](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/87/Euston_Arch.jpg) and the [station platforms](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/65/Euston_Station_showing_wrought_iron_roof_of_1837.jpg). The joys of being a writer: never did I imagine spending so much time researching English train lines and stations circa 1880s-1900s, or that I'd actually kind of enjoy it, lol. As I've said before, I've tried my best to be accurate to history, but if anything sticks out as being wrong ... blame those pesky Knights and Half-Breeds!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an earlier author's note I said I'd play coy about updating the character tag, and only add to it when new faces appeared, but for the sake of my own transparency I feel like I should clarify. There are a few important people *cough*Isabeau*cough*Lafayette*cough*Hastings*cough* that have yet to show up - they will _absolutely_ be in this fic. But for the time being (and a significant portion of events still to come), the current list of characters are the ones we're sticking with.
> 
> Also the word count tag has been updated, because ~~I'm a nightmare person~~ ~~I've lost control of my life~~ the story continues!
> 
> Chapter first posted 16 October 2018.

It’s a long journey.

He’d known this even before they began, but experiencing it is something else entirely. The movement of the train practically begs him to drift off into sleep but such an action is ill-advised. They may be less likely to be discovered now they’re moving, but it’s still too great a thing to leave to chance.

As small as their surroundings are he can’t move about the way he wants to, either. The path they took through the cargo is too cramped to pace properly; he can stand at least, stretch his legs, but there’s no way to expel the – it’s not nervous energy, he’s better than that, but when he wants to move he wants to _move_ , and being confined to a tiny space without even a window to divert his attention is …

Frustrating, to put it lightly.

Nikola looks up as he returns from his latest walkabout. He at least has the luxury of having something to occupy him, with his handful of tools and Grayson’s supply of devices, though it seems the train’s rocking is keeping him from truly diving in.

“It’s been some time since I last travelled anywhere by locomotive,” he says, and there’s a tone to his voice that might be whimsy. “What about you, Grayson?”

“Not for a while.” The answer is immediate, but then he stops to give it more thought. “Not since our operations in the subcontinent, as a matter of fact.”

“That is indeed a decent length of time.”

It’s an odd realisation to make, but now that he’s aware of it he can think of little else. “I can hardly remember the last time we travelled so far out of London we required anything other than a carriage. I think even the Sentinels would have seen more use from us than this.”

Nikola watches him, takes in every word with the kind of attention he alone provides these days: open, and free of judgement. It’s the sort of look he once received from Sebastien, and from Isabeau, on more occasions than one might think. To be graced with that again is truly bittersweet.

“Perhaps it is for the best. I do not want to imagine losing the delight of travel, forever associating it with … well. Things it should not be associated with.”

Grayson notes the awkward shift at the end of his sentence, and carries on, “You enjoy it then, Nikola?”

“Train travel? When the mood takes me.” He smiles suddenly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not that I had very many opportunities to, circumstances being what they were. And of course, being in a nice warm passenger car is much preferable to this.”

He can’t argue with that. As though summoned by Nikola’s words the chill of the morning seems to settle upon him with full force. Mostly he’s thankful the rain hasn’t found its way in; be it unending sheets or a fine, freezing mist, he’s glad to be away from it, for the chance to, if not get dry, then at least be less wet. The wind is far craftier, however, sneaking between cracks and seams to grace them with its bluster. Grayson wraps himself in his damp coat and thinks the only thing they need for the trifecta is a snowstorm.

“Next time, perhaps,” he finally replies, and Nikola blinks up at him.

“Perhaps.” His smile is more genuine this time.

All that’s left now is to wait until they reach their destination.

Their train makes no stops, a double-edged sword: for all that he wants to spend as little time possible inside, there’s also no real way of telling how close they are. Not that he’d recognise the countryside even if he _could_ see it; he likely wouldn’t know the city was closing in on them until it was already on the horizon. It leaves everything, all the preparations he might want to make or the conversations he’d like to have, in a state of limbo. It’s the worst sort of waiting, and there’s nothing he can do but accept it.

According to Nikola the Rebellion’s made its home somewhere near the Port of Liverpool, though where exactly he wouldn’t say. Grayson hopes it’s simply the man keeping things close to his chest and not some other, less desirable alternative. With as little knowledge as he has about the city he supposes they could be anywhere and he’d believe it. There could be any number of things lurking in wait upon their arrival; having no way to know, and plan accordingly, sets a discomfort in him he can’t easily banish.

He’s dug into some quiet mind space made up of the rocking of the train and the white noise of outside, and so he doesn’t know exactly how much time has passed when there’s a touch to his leg. He blinks, and Nikola is there, getting to his feet. There’s an intent look on his face.

“We’re slowing down,” he says, gathering up all his pieces.

“How can you tell?”

Nikola smiles, shakes his head as though he’s made a particularly good joke, and says nothing. Grayson’s not so desperate to know that he asks again; whatever leg up Nikola has on him, Grayson trusts his word. So when he heads for the path they took in, nodding his head for him to follow, there’s no question in his mind.

Near to where he came in there’s a hatch in the ceiling. He hadn’t noticed it when he first crept inside, for obvious reasons, but now it’s all he sees. Nikola stands below, attention shifting between him and the hatch.

“From here I must ask your opinion, my friend,” he says, leaning close so to be heard. “I confess I do not know what dangers may be waiting when we reach the city. We should stay out of sight of the train’s police, should they realise we weren’t passengers. This hatch will see us out of this car but from there …?”

Grayson looks up at the hatch. “What are your thoughts, Nikola?”

“We could jump from the train before it reaches the station. At a slow enough speed, it would not be difficult, I think.”

“… any other suggestions?”

“We – if we can edge around the side of the carriage then perhaps once the train has stopped we can … blend into the crowd?”

Grayson nods. “I applaud the bravery of your first proposal but I wouldn’t ask it of you, even were you not still injured.”

Nikola sets his jaw. “It’s not so bad now. I could do it.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I can tell you, with absolute certainty, what would happen should we go through with it and any of our allies discover what we’ve done.”

Nikola tilts his head in curiosity, and Grayson finds himself resisting a smirk.

“They’d say you’ve been spending far too much time around me, and we’d be lucky to ever again be in the same room without friendly supervision.”

“You may be right,” he says with a sigh, stepping back enough that he can motion Grayson forward. “Very well, let’s go.”

It takes him boosting Nikola up to reach the hatch, but they get it open. Climbing out is a little more difficult. The hatch is large enough to squeeze through, though only just: Nikola goes first, because despite the potential danger he’d rather help lift him out than try to drag him out. All too eager to help, Nikola sticks his arm back inside, waggles his hand in invitation; Grayson makes a running leap off the wall and pulls himself up instead.

The city looms ahead, closer than he’d anticipated. It’s a grey old day, thick banks of cloud hanging heavy overhead, casting everything in a dull tone. The wind whips at him, just as fitting, a bitter chill that makes him miss the inside of the car immediately. He drops low to the roof of the car, much like Nikola is doing, and shifts his way over towards the left side.

Just as he’d hoped: a set of rungs is attached to the outside of the car, with a matching pair on the opposite side. He can already foresee a problem, however, and it’ll be on them fast.

He looks over the front of the car.

“Nikola! I need you to come up here!”

“What is it?”

Grayson points down to the coupling between the carriages. “We’ll soon reach the station and I don’t know which platform we’ll pull into. I need you to climb down there and wait for my signal, then move around to the side that’s safe!”

“Why not wait up here, with you?”

“One person’s a large enough target already! Trust me!”

They’ve both had to shout to be heard over the sound of the wind and the train, and after having been quiet for so long it leaves him feeling far too exposed. Nikola seems dubious, peering over the front with an unhappy look on his face, but he finally climbs down. Grayson watches him brace himself against whatever he can and doesn’t envy the bumpy ride he’s in for.

The route that brings them into the city is thankfully a sparse one; buildings with a view to the trainyard are far enough away to be of little concern, and there seems to be no way for random passers-by to find their way in. There are more yard workers around the tracks than he’d expected, though, and all he can do is press himself further down against the roof and hope they’re as engaged in their work as they should be.

What looks like a massive shed soon comes into view. He realises quickly it’s part of the station, a large covering that shelters the platforms. It’s almost upon them, and the tracks are being devoured as quickly as he can look ahead – just a few more seconds –

_There._

“Nikola!”

He bangs his hand as hard as he dares against the left side of the car, hoping Nikola’s heard enough to look up and see, and then he’s whirling to the edge and slipping over. He’s nearly to the bottom of the rungs when Nikola skirts around into view. His white-knuckled grip gives him away; precarious as their position is, he still reaches over to help haul him to the rungs.

“What now?”

“Stay vigilant,” he warns, “we’ll move the second we have a chance.”

The platform they pull into is the furthest along on their side of the building; there’s nothing but wall at their backs. His knowledge of train travel procedure is admittedly basic but at some point the luggage will have to be unloaded and that, so far, seems like their best bet. Slip onto the platform while the passengers are distracted and before any of the station hands can stumble upon them …

He slides off the rungs even before the train has fully stopped, boots crunching against the ballast. He’s already edging around to the corner of the car when Nikola hops down a moment later, keeping a lookout without a word from Grayson, and he’s incredibly grateful for it. What a sight they must make, hiding as they are – not that that’s an invitation to be found, he thinks in warning to whatever god might be out there listening.

Over the sound of the engine cooling there’s the ring of whistles and station hands calling to one another, and slowly the noise grows, in such a way that could only mean one thing.

Not quite throwing caution to the wind, he creeps forward until he can see the platform itself. His suspicions prove correct: the passengers are disembarking.

Nikola is glaring daggers at him when he returns – hardly a surprise – but before he can voice his displeasure Grayson brings a finger to his mouth, leads him along to the other end of the carriage. By the coupling between cars he stops, gives a quick check to ensure they’re not out in the open, and then he slips around, pausing by the corner nearest the platform, now only a few steps away.

Nikola’s shoulder bumps his as they crowd together.

“These risks are far too great, Grayson –”

“Listen,” he cuts in, “the car we just passed should hold the luggage. They’ll be unpacking any minute now. That’s our chance. Whatever happens, stay calm, and do as I do.”

Where there had been only a few stragglers earlier, now the platform is filling up, travellers filing out at a steady pace. Among them are more than a few armed men, police that accompanied the train and guards from the station both; the police seem more inclined to wait by the train, while the guards make lazy circuits, weapons held like an afterthought. Still, they’ll be the ones to get past.

As he watches, several station hands appear, make their way to the carriage, and begin the process of unloading. It captures the attention of most everyone, as he’d hoped; immediately he turns to watch the guards, a frown overtaking his face as he does. There’s no time to memorise patterns – the second they have an opening …

“Now, Nikola.”

He’d like to think he makes a stealthy approach; whether he actually manages it is another matter. Either way he climbs up, then uses his body to shield Nikola’s as he scrambles onto the platform.

No call goes up, the way he’s half expecting one to, and beside him he can almost feel Nikola vibrating with unspent adrenaline.

“Which of us is more recognisable, do you think?” Nikola asks, voice low and giddy.

Grayson quickly shushes him.

It’s a fair question, for all that he can’t think on it right now. Regardless of the answer, again he puts his body in the way of Nikola’s, one hand curled around his arm to lead him out, keeping him at even more of a distance from the officers. He sets a brisk pace as he marches them down the platform, calling up every ounce of confidence he possessed as a knight and channelling it through his entire being. Rarely did they ever have to bluff like this, but he’d learned quickly after the first few attempts: looking as though you belong somewhere will get you further than you might think.

The passengers pay them no mind, the station hands are busy, and they make it past the guards without incident. The entrance waiting at the end of the platform is getting closer by the second.

“Oi, sir!”

He almost doesn’t stop, but from the corner of his eye he sees Nikola falter and he knows now there’s no choice. It’s one of the station guards, Grayson’s surprised to note – the one they just passed, in fact – and while he doesn’t come any closer, he watches them very intently.

Shit.

“Don’t you want to collect your luggage?”

Grayson looks towards the carriage. One of the police is glancing their way, a frown on his face.

_Shit._

“Sir?”

“We have no luggage!”

For all that his voice carries Nikola sounds surprisingly composed. The instant he speaks all eyes are on him, Grayson’s included, but he bears the weight of it with a straight back. It’s exactly the distraction he needs to get his thoughts in order, mind racing as the guard takes a step closer, suddenly holding his weapon far more attentively.

“Unfortunately,” Grayson breaks in, “our business associate was the one organising our luggage, and he missed the train. Tends to overindulge in his nightcap, that one.” He makes a drinking motion with one hand; beside him Nikola gives a helpless sort of shrug and shakes his head.

The guard stares at them for a long, long moment.

“Maybe not the best person to go into business with, eh?”

Grayson tips his head at that, and before their luck has the chance to change he’s turning, tightening his grip on Nikola’s arm and heading for the entrance. He feels eyes on them the entire way but he doesn’t stop, projects nothing but the authority of a man on a mission, and soon enough they’re off the platform, passing through the modest entryway, and out into the open air.

Liverpool awaits.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly there yet, but Happy Halloween! I have nothing spooky to offer beyond this fic's continued existence. That's scary enough in and of itself though, right?
> 
> The weird thing I found about this chapter when I went back over everything was how easily it could fit either at the end of the previous one, or the start of the next? And I dithered over shifting it to one or the other, since both had their pros and cons. In the end I settled on leaving things as they were. It results in another shorter chapter, but hopefully you understand.
> 
> Chapter first posted 30 October 2018.

There are two things Grayson knows Liverpool is famous for – trade, and population – and as he steps out onto the street he begins to see how greatly intertwined they are. The roads are bustling in a way he rarely sees, even in the heart of London, but what surprises him is the spread of people on display. Men in fine business suits mingle with everyday tradespeople; even the poorest of citizens are present, struggling to ply their wares. Everybody seems to have somewhere to be, or have something to do, and it’s a stark contrast to what he’s used to back in the city, where most everyone stays where they belong, and no one is in much of a hurry to get anywhere.

He and Nikola fall somewhere in the middle, he thinks as they walk two abreast down the street. They head in no particular direction; more than anything he wants to put distance between the station and themselves, on the off chance their exit didn’t go as unnoticed as he’d hoped. It’s easy enough to be swallowed up by the crowds and the city, and for all that paranoia edges along his nerves they get further and further away with no signs of being followed.

For the first time in a long while he feels like he can breathe again.

Nudging Nikola’s arm, he directs them down a quieter street and slows their pace.

“Good thinking back there.”

Nikola beams. “And you, my friend. Though to be entirely honest, I’m just glad it worked.”

“There was a chance it wouldn’t,” and he’s speaking more to himself than anything, scenarios playing out in his head, “if one of them had asked to see a ticket …”

“All we ever said was that we had no luggage. That could just as easily be because we were not passengers, but instead waiting for one, yes?”

“Perhaps. Whatever the case, I too am glad we escaped.”

Nikola stops them at the mouth of an alley, dark and quiet. Grayson’s instincts spring to life immediately; he gives the place a proper look over, but nothing crawls out to confront them just yet.

“If you are ready, we can meet with our friends.”

His inflection is about as subtle as a coach gun blast to the face, and Grayson raises his eyebrow at it.

“You know where they are, then?”

“It’s more a matter of narrowing it down,” he says, pulling out from under his coat a communicator. “Please, wait here. I promise to make it as quick as possible.”

He’s heading deeper into the alley before Grayson can get a word out, though in all honesty he doesn’t think he’d have been able to stop him, even if he’d wanted to. Trying to make himself look inconspicuous feels like an effort in futility; the street they’re on may be a quieter one but it still sees traffic, and he’s sure it’s only a matter of time until the image of a tall, grim-faced man standing at the mouth of a dark alley is simply too suspicious for someone to bear.

There are noises coming from behind him, asynchronous taps he can just barely make out. He looks back once, to make sure nothing nefarious is going on, then leaves him to it.

It’s more than a few minutes later when Nikola emerges. “I’m sorry for making you wait, my friend.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for.” He shakes his head. “Did you learn what you needed to?”

“Thankfully, yes. This way.”

Nikola takes the lead, and Grayson falls in line half a step behind him, still close enough to speak if he wishes. They’re heading back the way they came, towards the station, but before he has time to start worrying they divert onto another street and soon it’s left behind. Nikola leads with such confidence that he can allow his attention to wander – not to distraction, but so he can take in his surroundings, memorise what he can in case he needs to come this way again.

He’s not sure yet what to make of Liverpool. Its buildings are not as fine as London’s, squashed together and encroached upon by housing as they are, but with the way people are flowing in and out of them it’s clear they hold importance. He decides he’s not fond of all the people then, too many eyes and bodies and smells; the press of everyone around him is constant and uncomfortable, and he can’t wait to be off the streets.

Nikola provides the perfect distraction from his thoughts, as he often does.

“Your method of contacting them – I feel as though I’ve heard you discuss it before.”

“Morse code,” Nikola says, nodding, “and yes, you probably would have. Ours was perhaps not the most traditional method of use – lacking the intended operational tools, and so on – but it was sufficient for the task.”

“Safer than using the communicators normally, I’d imagine.”

“At this point in time, correct.”

“And our mutual friend didn’t trust you with this information ahead of time?” He keeps his voice low. Perhaps that’s the reason it comes out sounding harsher than intended.

Nikola glances at him and away just as quickly. “She would have, had I asked. I knew the general vicinity; that was enough for me. You must understand: for all that they protect me, I too must try to protect _them_. Just as I do with you.”

Grayson feels every argument, every word of disbelief and frustration, crawl up his throat and onto his tongue; he bites them back.

They keep walking.

He hears it before anything else, the sound of what could only be a steamship cutting through the afternoon air, unmistakable in its volume. He hadn’t realised they were so close to the water. He catches glimpses from between buildings as they continue, smokestacks and masts rising into the sky. The urge he feels then, to wander closer and see the vessels in all their glory, doesn’t surprise him in the slightest.

It seems Nikola can’t resist a curious glance or two of his own. Grayson can’t deny he’s impressed by the man’s restraint, but then, he supposes he has more pressing concerns.

The change in scenery hasn’t been lost on him. They seem to have moved into a mostly residential area, and if he’d thought the buildings he saw earlier were clustered together it’s nothing compared to how they look now. There’s a smell in the air that he recognises all too quickly: sickness, and too many bodies all in one place. The people lingering outside are dressed far more plainly than those he saw earlier; they look up at them as they pass, curiosity and wariness blatant in their eyes. They pass a sign as they head deeper down the road: it reads _Blundell Street_.

Nikola pauses a moment, glancing around at the buildings.

“It’s this way.”

He motions for Grayson to follow him and they head down an alley between two buildings, and for a moment there’s nothing but grey on all sides, until they reach the end and emerge –

In the courtyard of another building entirely.

Grayson has to stop himself from turning around to make sure he hadn’t imagined the entire thing.

There are more people here in this strange little court – more children, too, than he’d seen outside – but the suspicion they show is no different. He does his best to appear as non-threatening as possible as he trails after Nikola, who shows no hesitation making his way across the yard. There are maybe six small sets of steps that he can see, each leading to its own building, and for all that they look the same Nikola moves towards one in particular.

“You know the password, don’t you?” Grayson asks. He’s only half-joking.

Nikola’s response is to knock, plain and simple.

Part of him expects the door not to open – or should it, that certainly there won’t be any of the Rebellion behind it – but then he hears movement from within, and suddenly there’s an eye peering at him through a tiny gap between door and frame.

The door shuts. Voices murmur to each other, and Grayson feels himself tense in preparation –

The door opens fully. A familiar face greets him, though it takes him a moment to call up the name: “Mary?”

The young woman raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d remember me. Wonders never cease. Come on, inside, quickly.”

He goes first, instincts on alert regardless of whether they need to be. It’s a small room, which makes the number of people inside it all the more noticeable, and despite surely knowing who’s coming through the door they all look ready to draw their weapons. Perhaps it’s _because_ they know who’s coming through the door, some treacherous part of his mind pipes up; he quickly silences it. Furniture is as sparse as the room is plain and the most interesting thing in the entire space is the staircase in the corner. At least that has some mystery to offer.

From behind he hears Nikola step inside, Mary offering a soft, “Hello, Mr Tesla, sir,” as he passes her. He glances back in time to see him smiling, what looks like a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. Grayson turns away, trying not to smile himself, and gives no indication that he’s seen.

“You should head upstairs,” Mary says a moment later, after the door is closed. “She knows you’re coming.”

Grayson nods his thanks. He doesn’t need to be told twice. Multiple pairs of eyes track him as he makes his way up; multiple pairs of eyes track him as he emerges on the first floor. He meets the gazes of all of them in turn, but there are no faces he recognises here. The room is no different to the one below, though this one has a few tiny cots set up along one wall.

Next floor, then.

Nikola clears his throat. When Grayson turns he finds him setting down his things.

“Please let her know I’ll speak with her later.”

Grayson frowns. “Something the matter?”

“There doesn’t always have to be a problem, my friend,” Nikola replies, and there’s a glint in his eyes.

He thinks he could argue that point, and rather successfully too, but he lets it go, raises his hands in surrender and makes his final trip up the stairs.

The windows in this room have been boarded over. Faint beams of light reach in where they can but otherwise it is dark, the only illumination coming from the odd lantern placed here and there. There are a few cots in here, too, though their presence is almost entirely hidden by the stacks of documents and materials scattered about the place. Just as it was back in the safe house, he thinks with some amusement.

He sees her before she sees him, as immersed as she is in whatever she’s working on. The familiarity of the sight wakes something in him then, and he realises with some surprise that he’s glad to see her, and safe on top of that.

And all it took was the complete upheaval of everything in his life up until now. They may make a proper rebel of him yet.

He can’t spend any more time standing around. Clearing the final steps, he enters the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The coach gun is that cool triple barreled shotgun that fires three shots at once. 
> 
> Liverpool's cellar and [court](http://www.yoliverpool.com/forum/attachment.php?attachmentid=26839&d=1378407080) [dwellings](http://www.yoliverpool.com/forum/attachment.php?attachmentid=26838&d=1378407076) were the home of much of the city's population and pretty unsanitary. (Blundell Street is on page 22 of this PDF [here](https://www.hslc.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/122-5-Taylor.pdf). This [map picture](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uPjaUtd_i5Y/Stdsa3liO8I/AAAAAAAAAFA/UFdjyDvqz4g/s1600/LiverPool_cr_cr.jpg) should also give you an idea of the layout of these dwellings.)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so hard to focus on writing lately, with so many games out/about to be released (like Red Dead 2, and Tetris Effect, and Hitman 2, and the Spyro Trilogy, and Pokemon Let's Go, and ...) but I'm still trying to keep at it! With any luck we'll be moving to a weekly schedule soon.
> 
> And of course now that I've said that I'll have jinxed myself. Well done self!
> 
> Chapter first posted 13 November 2018.

“Lakshmi.”

She doesn’t jump, not that he really would’ve expected her to, but there is a strangely distant look in her eyes when she glances up at him. It only lasts a few moments before the spell breaks, and she offers him that small, warm smile of hers.

“Grayson. It’s good to see you.”

She gets up from her seat at the table and approaches him, looking him over as she does. He wonders what she sees. When they’re only a few steps apart she reaches out and clasps his arm; her fingers squeeze just once and then the touch is gone, almost like it was never there at all.

Rather than return the touch, he nods. “And you. Your strategic retreat went well, I take it?”

She smiles again at the old joke. “As well as we could have hoped. Not that it was easy, mind you, but that’s what plans are for. Please, sit.”

Lakshmi leads him around to the other side of the table and offers him the chair she’d previously been occupying, before turning to shift the stacks of documents piled on the other one. He’s moving to help before she can say a word, and he knows exactly what the expression on her face means; he meets her gaze dead on, all but begging her to say something. In the end she only shakes her head and carries on.

“Is Devi not with you?” he asks, finally settling in.

“She’s running errands. Never been the kind for sitting still, that one. It works out for both of us this way.”

He has the chance to observe her better now that they’re closer. She looks tired, drawn in a way she wasn’t even back at the other safe house, with all the stressors she had to deal with. Then again, he supposes the logistics of planning and enacting a large-scale manoeuvre like the one she’s just pulled off would lead to a little fatigue. Perhaps it’s the clothing, plainer than her usual style and lacking its distinctive armband; a necessity of stealth, no doubt. He hopes it’s as simple as all that, anyway.

“She’ll be happy to see Nikola, at least,” he says, and nods his head towards the room’s entrance. “He’s downstairs. Said he’d talk with you later.”

“She’ll be glad to see you, too, though she may not admit it.”

“I doubt that.”

Lakshmi’s amusement lasts longer than he’d imagined it would, but eventually her eyes turn serious. She looks to something on the table. “How’s he faring?”

“You know Nikola. He’s stronger than most give him credit for.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Stronger than me, I’d wager.”

“And you?”

Her eyes cut his way, and he suddenly has a feeling he knows exactly where this conversation is headed.

“Still breathing.”

She watches him for a time, tapping one finger against the table. “Nikola … Nikola I expected. With you I wasn’t sure.” Her gaze is piercing. “I can’t imagine you’d be here if your quest had been successful.”

“You’d be right,” he says, through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry, Grayson.”

“Don’t; I’ve no suspicions to throw at your feet this time.”

Lakshmi inclines her head. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I reached the United India House. It was under guard, more so than usual.” Grayson feels his hand begin to shake; he clenches it into a fist and presses it into his thigh. “But before I could make an incursion I overheard a few of them – Hastings wasn’t even there.”

Lakshmi sighs deeply, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, then her face in her hands. She sits like that for a while, and as Grayson watches her he finds himself wishing he was capable of such restrained reactions. Mostly he wants to punch his fist through the nearest solid object, and damn the state of his knuckles.

Finally she sits back up. “My people are already keeping an ear close to the ground. He can’t hide forever.”

“I’m sure he’ll try.”

They sit in silence after that, Grayson wallowing in his thoughts and Lakshmi allowing him to. She seems to be just as deep in contemplation as he is, though she disguises it well enough, shifting pieces of paper around the table in some semblance of order. It’s not a dismissal – he knows what that feels like – but he’s uncomfortable, tense in way he doesn’t enjoy.

It’s the weight of disappointment, he realises, both his own and Lakshmi’s. She may not have said anything, but she doesn’t have to; he knows he was their first, best shot at taking down Hastings, and he failed. Never mind that he wasn’t even present – if they never get another chance Grayson won’t ever forgive himself.

The silence has gone on too long.

“Do you ever grow tired of it?” Lakshmi glances at him, the beginnings of a frown on her face. He continues: “Always looking over your shoulder, waiting for the next threat to manifest?”

“So long as we fight for what we do it’s a part of life. There’s nothing more to it.”

“Why come here then? I thought Liverpool was meant to be safe for you.”

She gives him a considering look. “No place is ever truly safe, Grayson. But we’ve had dealings in Liverpool before; the people here – the poor, the sick, the downtrodden – they know we’ll fight for them, and the police force isn’t as prevalent as in London. And when the time comes, the port provides us options.”

Grayson thinks of the people he’d seen outside, in the street and the court both. “This place is your next Whitechapel, then?”

Lakshmi doesn’t say anything for a few moments. From the way she’s looking at him and how she’s back to tapping her finger on the table, whatever she’s thinking about, she’s doing so intently. “There’s a great number of people in this city. Many of them live in these sorts of dwellings. It’s easier to disappear into a crowd when there’s an _actual_ crowd, don’t you think?”

“Fair point.”

“Being surrounded by so many people should make it more difficult for anyone that may be looking to find us.”

Grayson stills. He’s not sure he likes the way she’s looking at him, now.

“Like your former colleague, the Lycan.”

… Shit.

“You heard about Alastair,” he says slowly, obviously.

She nods. “Shortly before your arrival.”

He can’t say he’s surprised. Lakshmi’s a competent woman, and highly regarded by her people; despite everything she would have had to keep up with during this retreat, every moving piece she’d need to account for, he has no doubt that when someone came to her with this she would have given it her absolute attention.

Somehow it’s happened again, though: here he is, concealing things concerning Alastair from her, and all too quickly being found out. Lakshmi doesn’t look particularly angry, he finds himself thinking, but then he knows what they say about still water.

“He didn’t hurt any of your people. Nikola will attest to that.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t still.”

Well. There’s not much he can say to that, is there? Not when some part of him is convinced she could be speaking the truth. Now it’s his turn to sigh, to lean forward and rest his head in his hands. Where with Nikola it had been fury, here it tastes more like misery, another layer of failure to add alongside Hastings. In any other instance avoiding loss of life would be a cause worth celebrating. Now it feels like a consolation prize.

“Do you have any idea where he might go?”

“I’ve come to terms with the notion that I probably never really knew him at all. So, no,” he finishes bitterly.

Lakshmi’s hand on him then is as gentle as her voice had been moments before. He looks up, surprised, to find she’s somehow moved closer. It’s easier to read her emotions like this, for all that she may be _letting_ him read them; if that’s the case, he doesn’t mind. The way she’s looking at him is like nothing he’s seen on her before: something like concern, yes, but beneath that a core of unshakeable certainty.

Belief, he thinks. Belief in _him_.

He might’ve seen that look before, actually, memories from those hazy days recovering from his imprisonment swimming to the front of his mind. There’s no time to think on it further, though, as Lakshmi starts to speak.

“I know the sting of betrayal better than most. You may never forget it. But if you choose to keep those memories, _use_ them. A well-tended fire burns longer.”

Grayson lets the words sink into him, knowing he’ll be pondering them a while yet even as his mouth opens of its own accord. “And if I don’t want to keep them?”

“Then don’t.” She shrugs. “The world is full of distractions, and you may never see him again as it is. But you don’t strike me as the type to forget.”

He thinks she might be right.

Just as suddenly as it’d come, the moment ends, and Lakshmi’s moving back, once again putting space between them. This time when she turns her attention back to the table it does feel more like a dismissal, though not in a rude sense: more that she’s said everything she had to say and has since moved on. So he sits there for a while, allowing himself this time in her presence, allowing himself to simply _be_ , and in the darkness and quiet of the room it’s like he’s slipped into some in-between place. Peaceful, like something out of a dream.

Like something that won’t last.

When he’s had about all that he can excuse he rises to his feet. “What now?”

“Now, we wait. We prepare. And when the time comes, we act. Until then,” she looks his way, “get comfortable.”

 

* * *

 

So that’s what he does. Or at least, he tries: things are about as comfortable as they’d been in the safe house previous, only with everyone packed into a smaller space. The rebels treat him much the same as they did then, too – conversations that stop any time he enters the room is a trend he quickly becomes used to – but they don’t bother him, so he leaves them be in turn.

Lakshmi seems to have no qualms with him lingering in her space, despite the looks it garners him among her people; he knows she could end any rumours with a word, but he tries to spare her that, and starts splitting his time between her and others. Nikola makes himself useful, as he always does, and so Grayson offers to help just as he had before. There are fewer things to tinker with here, especially in the way of weaponry, so their near-constant audience appear far less suspicious of him.

In that one area, at least.

Devi makes her appearance later that first day. He has no doubt she too knew of their arrival ahead of time – she seems to be looking for them before she’s even fully through the door, as subtly as she can – and when she finally does spot him it’s more or less exactly what he expects. Frosty indifference is preferable to outright hostility, though, and if on occasion he catches her looking at him with less than absolute loathing, then he has to believe Lakshmi might actually have been speaking the truth.

The court itself is his final escape. The local police walk these streets rarely, and their most immediate neighbours know and protect the Rebellion’s secret, so with Lakshmi’s blessing he begins venturing outside. As closed in as it is even seeing the sky for an extended period of time is a relief; that he gets to stretch his legs in the same instance is a benefit he’s truly grateful for.

The court dwellers pay him no mind, for the most part, though the children seem fascinated by him, speaking in hushed tones and staring at him when they think he doesn’t know. He keeps out of everyone’s way as much as he can, especially when the little ones are present. The last thing he wants is to cause them trouble. The rebels are active at all times of the day, but even more so at night; to better serve both parties he starts taking his patrols long after the sun has set.

Christmas comes and goes.

It’s a few nights later, coming up on a week since they first arrived in Liverpool, when he notices the figure standing in the mouth of the court. There’s nothing but the light from the stars; he left his lantern inside this particular evening, but even in such darkness he knows, somehow, that this person is staring right at him.

Grayson’s moving before he has time to think twice. He reaches back for his blade as he steps closer, and now he _knows_ the figure is looking at him, because it takes a few steps back in kind. Only a few though, then it stops; he’s not sure why. He’s not sure he cares.

In seconds he’s at the mouth of the court, and it’s only now that caution chills his blood. The figure hasn’t moved. For all he knows he’s about to dive face first into a trap – might already be in the middle of one, in fact – so he slows his pace –

The figure steps closer, and Grayson stops entirely.

“Alastair.”

It’s him, somehow, impossibly: Alastair stands before him. This is a version of him Grayson barely recognises, in his ill-fitting, everyday clothes, signs of exhaustion plain to see on him. Perhaps it’s the way the garments sit on him, but he seems thinner, the bulk and power that Grayson knows as his form seeming to vanish before his eyes. He’s scruffy, too, in a way he hadn’t expected and certainly has never seen before, and he doesn’t know how to reconcile all these differences with the version of the man in his mind.

“None of my contacts answered my call, which means they’re either dead or driven underground.” Alastair’s voice is rough. “All of London is under martial law.”

Grayson can only stare at him. “What are you doing here, Alastair?”

“You know what I’m doing. Don’t make me say it.”

His body is one taut line, tension evident in everything from the way he stands to how he seems to be forcing himself to not break Grayson’s gaze. It’s a challenge, he realises grimly, Alastair daring him to call his bluff despite his words, but something about it feels wrong. Grayson's not entirely sure the words are aimed at him alone.

There’s a voice in his head, quiet and thoughtful, listing all the possible reasons for Alastair’s being here; he doesn’t need it. If it’s what he suspects then he’ll grant Alastair’s wish. It would be too cruel, otherwise.

Grayson realises one hand still rests on his blade. Slowly he brings both of them up, holding them palm out so Alastair can see.

“I can’t promise they won’t kill you on the spot,” he says.

The way Alastair looks then proves to Grayson that for all his – entirely justifiable – anger, some part of him still hasn’t managed to carve out every good memory he had of him.

“I don’t expect much else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda love the idea of Lakshmi never letting Grayson live down Alastair's betrayal. Not in a mean way, just in a like, "Hey Grayson, remember that time we snuck into the United India House? And the person you brought along, the one you said you trusted with your life, he totally betrayed us? Remember that?" kind of way. Idk, it's probably out of character, but it's just funny to me.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every now and then I listen to the game's soundtrack to get back into the right mindset for writing and [goddamn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qAVsLMbE1G0) I [always](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvNsjTDriMM) [forget](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOfxXmHAL2Q) [how](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xP87S9q34Hc) [good](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Vqfi36c-A0) [the](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q4O7AuvwCbU) [songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIwEBtrxCSk) [are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZn2ZWbZ08A). Even the ones I have to pretend don't exist because they [involve](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJfknmyYKmQ) [killing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZ-kxRQAQOw) [Alastair](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1500BXdx4-Q). Good job, Jason Graves, gold stars all round.
> 
> Chapter first posted 27 November 2018.

After everything that’s happened Grayson finds himself wondering if this will be incident that sees the rebels finally stop trusting him.

He’d used his communicator to call ahead and have Nikola inform them of the situation, because despite past missteps and certain people’s beliefs he does, in fact, have a brain inside his skull. Alastair had looked darkly amused at the ensuing chaos, as from out of a disturbed nest rebels swarmed in exactly the kind of confusion Grayson had hoped to avoid. Still, they had allowed him to march Alastair inside under nothing but his own steam and the threat of their guns; the more he thinks about it, the more he realises how poorly things could’ve gone.

And now here he sits, on the ground floor of the building, all but surrounded by rebels while somewhere above Lakshmi confronts Alastair. He hasn’t seen her since they entered the building: it was a pair of unknown rebels who claimed escort duties from him, once Alastair had been suitably bound. Devi, too, is noticeably absent. He wonders if she’s up there with her mother, or if she’s been barred from whatever’s taking place.

He wants to know what’s going on, more than almost anything he’s ever wanted. He also knows exactly how that will look to the rebels gathered around him, all but radiating their unease.

“I don’t understand how he found us.”

Nikola sits beside him. He’s staring straight ahead, eyes wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to his discomfort better than anything else could. His fingers are twined together, knuckles turning white; Grayson gently lays a hand on his shoulder and feels the flinch as if it were his own.

“You’re safe here, Nikola. Lakshmi would never let any harm befall you whilst under her protection. Neither will I.”

“That’s not what concerns me,” Nikola says, and as quiet as he is, he sounds miserable. “What if he hurt someone in order to get here? What if he didn’t come alone?”

Grayson looks towards the ceiling, as though he’s somehow able to see them up there. He pulls his hand away. What can he say to answer that? He has no idea how Alastair managed to hunt them down; he wouldn’t put it past him to torture the information out of someone, though he certainly hopes that’s not the case, and not just for Alastair's sake.

Though to be fair he doesn’t think there’s much that could change Lakshmi’s opinion of him.

The second concern of his? It’s a fair enough question. He can’t pretend he too hasn’t been waiting for the jaws of the trap to snap shut on them, for all of Alastair’s supposed sincerity.

Nikola’s still staring into nothingness. Grayson blows out a breath. He’s never been much good at reassurance.

“I’ve no doubt Lakshmi’s people have an eye on every approach. If by chance an attack comes they won’t be caught off guard. As to how he found us …” Grayson pauses, weighing his words. “He’s a resourceful man. Perhaps we left some track for him to follow.”

It breaks Nikola out of his state, at least, if not in the way he expects. He turns to look at him, an incredibly dubious expression on his face, and despite the gravity of the current situation and the seriousness of their conversation, Grayson has to fight not to show his amusement.

“We were extraordinarily careful, considering the circumstances. If he still located us despite that then perhaps he deserved to,” Nikola says, trailing further into gloom as he goes on.

Grayson can see him on the verge of slipping back into the mood he just escaped from. That’s the last thing he wants.

“How did you even come to associate with the Rebellion?”

It’s the first thing to make it out of his mouth, and it seems to catch Nikola off-guard as much as it does himself. He won’t deny it’s been on his mind ever since he and Lakshmi spoke of it back in the other safe house, but for all the time they spent together then Nikola never broached the subject, and Grayson hadn’t thought it his place to ask. Now, though, he can’t hold back his curiosity. It looks as if it does the job of distracting Nikola well enough, too; he blinks a few times, and the blank expression that had threatened to overtake his face vanishes, replaced by a tiny frown caught between his eyebrows.

“That is … a long story, my friend.”

“You need not tell it all now,” Grayson says, shifting more towards him. He keeps his voice low, “Only what’s of most importance.”

Nikola looks at him for a long moment, then turns away.

“I knew of Lady Lakshmi first by her reputation. The Rebellion was gaining ground; there had to be someone quite formidable at its head for that to be the case. … An acquaintance pointed me towards Devi. Once I had proven I could be trusted, she introduced us.”

The halting, cautious way Nikola tells his tale doesn’t go unnoticed. Grayson finds his interest piqued.

“That’s rather more straightforward than I imagined.”

“You said the most important parts,” Nikola says, and shrugs. “Naturally it took some time to earn their trust.”

“It’s a miracle you were never discovered. The risk you took was immense.”

“I knew the consequences, what would happen if I was discovered. It was worth the danger.”

“Did your rebel acquaintance tell you that, too?”

It comes out with a sharper edge than he intends, a fact that he immediately regrets as something in Nikola’s face suddenly seems to shutter and close off to him. Even as he’d said the words he’d known they were a mistake, but he couldn’t help himself; the more Nikola spoke, the more he found himself thinking about those smuggled weapons, weapons that were turned against the men and women that were then his allies. Weapons that led them further along the chase towards the Rebellion. And he knows, _he knows_ it’s not fair to blame one person for what happened, and that there were greater things at play, and they all made their own choices, but he knows where that particular road ends: with Sebastien Malory dead.

That’s a wound that’s going to be a long time in the closing.

Nikola has long since turned away when he looks back at him. At least he hasn’t left entirely, Grayson thinks. Before he can open his mouth to apologise Nikola speaks.

“He wasn’t a rebel.” At Grayson’s silence, he goes on: “The one who helped – he’s not a rebel.”

The intrigue he’d felt back at the beginning of this conversation returns with a vengeance, all the secrecy and care Nikola’s taking putting his instincts on high alert. He couldn’t deny his curiosity before. He can’t now, either.

“Your acquaintance – is he the same man who helped pull me from the river?”

The way Nikola goes entirely still is enough of an answer for him. Of all the tells he could’ve given it’s probably the subtlest, all things considered; Grayson’s almost proud.

“You – how much of that do you remember?” Nikola asks.

“Not much,” he says, honestly, “but I remember him. I’ve seen him before.”

Nikola’s gone back into that quiet place of his – Grayson can all but see the thoughts spinning through his head, reflected on his face – but now _he’s_ the one who’s put him there. He can’t allow it to last.

“Nikola, please. You must tell me who he is.”

“I – I haven’t seen him since. He said –”

Grayson takes hold of Nikola’s arm, not unkindly, but enough to be noticeable. It does the job, as Nikola turns to face him. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but he looks paler in that moment than he has all night.

“There’s nothing for you to fear. He’s an ally of yours, is he not? Just tell me –”

“I _can’t_ ,” Nikola cuts him off, misery returning in full force. “Please, my friend, you must understand – it’s not my place, not now.”

Grayson sits back, his hand falling away from Nikola’s arm. It’s not quite shock that’s moving through him, dulling his senses: more like disbelief, he thinks. A wave of noise fills his head, questions tumbling over themselves and gone before he can truly dwell on any of them, but at the centre of them all is _why_. It’s starting to feel as though all he hears from anyone anymore is _it’s not my place to say_ , or _it’s a long story_ , or _when the time is right_ , and it’s starting to get a little ridiculous.

Perhaps it’s _his_ place to not know anything.

Those words are caustic on his tongue; he knows better than to say them, swallows them down instead.

He’s never reacted particularly well to being told what he should and shouldn’t concern himself with, even when he still counted himself part of the Order and such demands were a common occurrence. He’s no different now.

“Grayson?”

Nikola’s voice, hushed and full of concern, reaches his ears. He can see him from the corner of his eye, hovering beside him. His face is the picture of uncertainty; it looks as though he’s waiting for Grayson to answer, or trying to build up the courage to say more himself. Grayson’s already resolved to keep his mouth shut. As raw-edged as he’s feeling he’s sure he’d say something else he’d regret, and Nikola doesn’t deserve that.

“Knight.”

He turns to look because he can’t _not_ , damnable reflexes. Devi stands about halfway up the stairs, her face a careful mask. His attention isn’t all she’s caught – most of the room is paying notice now, discreetly or otherwise – but she only has eyes for him. When she sees him looking she jerks her head to the side, up the stairs.

He’s been summoned, then.

Nikola follows him to his feet, reaching out to grab his arm before he can move away. “Wait –”

“We’ll finish this later, Nikola,” he says, trying to sound as unaffected as possible, and gently removes his grip.

It feels like every eye in the building is on him; he ignores them all and makes his way across the room. Devi’s heading up the stairs before he’s even set foot on the first step, though she waits for him at the top, at least. There are fewer people on this floor, but they look significantly more prepared to take action, every one of them wearing the grim, blank face of a soldier waiting for the call to arms. He’s more than familiar with that expression.

“Has he given you anything?” he asks. He isn’t sure if it’s habit or precaution that sees him keep his voice low.

“My Queen did not say.”

Devi doesn’t look at him. Her irritation is plain as day, despite how well she conceals it, and Grayson’s certain all of a sudden he knows the outcome of his earlier pondering. He can’t quite fault Lakshmi, considering the circumstances. If he was in her position he thinks he’d do the same.

“What are you waiting for, knight? Stop wasting time.”

She’s planted herself firmly where she stands and looks entirely uninterested in moving – and in him, for that matter. It seems she won’t be heading any further, a fact which he’s quietly thankful for. Still, he finds himself similarly glued to the spot. Her refusal to use his name is nothing new; even the stoicism she wears is familiar. There’s something about her voice, though, a shaking undercurrent, cold and as cutting as steel.

Grayson watches her for a long moment, considering.

“We’re back to this, then, are we?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Devi, I swear –”

“Save your words for the day I’ll believe them.”

She finally looks at him, and it’s as though he’s somehow stepped weeks into the past, back to the days when they first encountered each other, on opposite sides of a fight – days that might not be as far gone as he’d once thought. Whatever warmth or trust might have existed between them, whatever fragments somehow survived the events of the London safe house: all of it, vanished, as if those feelings were never there to begin with. The sting it leaves him with is stronger than he expects, guilt all too eager to make its presence known, but there’s nothing he can think to do to assuage any of it.

He’s not sure she’d accept anything he could offer.

“Very well. Take care,” he says, and means it, for all that it’ll fall on deaf ears. Then he turns and heads up the final flight.

He hears the voices long before he reaches the top, words exchanged in quiet tones that barely become more audible the closer he gets:

“–vil you know. Isn’t that how the phrase goes?”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Alastair, then Lakshmi; he’s surprised by how civil they sound, the situation being what it is. Then he reaches the landing, and the two come into view. Alastair is bound to a chair, in such a way that, were he unaware of their history, might be called excessive: rope is looped around his middle, his arms are tied behind him, and his legs are strapped to those of the chair. Lakshmi stands before him, arms folded over her chest, and after what transpired last time Grayson finds himself immediately looking for weapons. Whatever she’s armed herself with she isn’t actively wielding, and from what little he can see Alastair appears unharmed; it’s a welcome change.

The darkness of the room lends everything an illicit feeling, like he’s walking in on a scene not meant for his eyes. In a lot of ways, he supposes that’s true. It’s not so dark that he can’t see the moment that Alastair notices him, eyes shifting his way; just as quick, Lakshmi catches the swing in attention and turns to look at him.

He wonders what conversation he just walked in on.

He settles his gaze on Lakshmi. “You asked for me?”

She frowns. In lieu of answering Lakshmi makes her way across the room, takes his arm and leads him down a few steps, though not so far that Alastair vanishes from sight.

“Is something the matter?”

“That depends,” Lakshmi says, and pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut.

He waits, bites his tongue and says nothing until she’s ready, despite how much he wants to ask. Over her shoulder he sees Alastair watching them. His eyes seem to glint in the low light.

Lakshmi breathes out a long sigh, seeming to emerge from the depths of her thoughts. She too glances at Alastair, looks at him for a long moment before she turns her back on him. “He claims to have information that could prove useful to us.”

“And?”

She stares him down. “And you’re the only one he’s willing to tell it to.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to put this in the end author's notes of the previous chapter but I completely forgot, so I'll put it here instead - Alastair's scruffy appearance is at least partly inspired by [these](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/M/MV5BMTg4NDEyNTY3NV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwNjM1MjUzNTE@._V1_.jpg) [photos](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/M/MV5BMTc4NjUxNTI2N15BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwMDE1NTA0NjE@._V1_SY1000_CR0,0,666,1000_AL_.jpg) of his performance capture artist, Matthew Waterson. Obviously this is not the level of scruffiness Alastair achieves, but it's still pretty damn impressive, and I have to give credit where it's due.
> 
> Chapter first posted 11 December 2018.

Grayson’s certain he’s mishearing things. It’s the only logical explanation. “What?”

“It’s as I said. He refuses to answer every question I put to him about this information.”

He hears the scepticism in her voice when she says _information_ and finds he doesn’t blame her. It reeks of lies and desperation, all of it, and he’s bothered by the fact that he can’t yet see how all the pieces of the puzzle fit together.

Lakshmi’s eyes are narrowed. The way she’s looking at him – not exactly with suspicion, but something awfully close – only worsens the feeling growing under his skin.

“He’ll talk,” Grayson snarls, and pushes past her.

“Grayson, wait –”

He shrugs off the hand that reaches for him and storms back up the stairs. Alastair’s gaze is locked on him as he crosses the room and it only adds fuel to the fire burning in his veins; the sound of Lakshmi racing after him barely registers. He only stops when he’s towering over Alastair.

“You’ll give up this information, whatever it is.”

Alastair has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Frustratingly he looks no less cavalier about it. “Ah, so you _were_ discussing me. I thought my ears were burning.”

“Tell us,” he grits out. “Now.”

“I believe you know my terms.”

“You’re a prisoner. You have no terms.”

Alastair frowns, his expression mock-thoughtful. “Is that what I am.”

Grayson wants to lunge, wants to snap his arm out and slug him right in the jaw; the urge to fight is already singing in his blood, and it’s such a familiar comfort. But it wouldn’t _be_ a fight, would it? He’s not so far gone he doesn’t realise it would be a beating, attacking a man incapable of defending himself, and he’s not about to give Alastair the satisfaction of causing him to stoop so low. Not when that’s likely exactly what he’s after.

He clenches his shaking hands into fists.

“You think this wise, Alastair?”

He’s seen it all, every play of emotion across Grayson’s face, because of course he has; Grayson watches his attention shift from where it had lingered on his fists back up to his face. His eyes are bright.

“Really, Gray. I’d say you’ve been spending too much time around the rebels but she,” he nods his head to the side, “was rather hospitable.”

“ _She_ is finding her patience wearing thin.”

Lakshmi moves closer all of a sudden, and Grayson just barely suppresses a flinch. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he almost forgot she was there. The weight of Alastair’s gaze shifts away from him, long enough that he can take a few steps back, putting some space between them all. He ends up by the table, both it and its contents having been shifted further away due to Alastair’s presence – fortunate thinking, as he’s sure the man would take any advantage presented to him. It’s there that he lays his hands, leans forward and settles his weight, and gives himself a moment to try to calm his nerves.

“Why _are_ you still here? I presumed you understood me well enough, considering you conveyed my wishes as I asked, but perhaps I should try again?”

… He’s going to need more than a moment at this rate.

Lakshmi and Alastair are staring each other down when he looks their way. A spark of something dangerous is in Alastair’s eyes, and for the second time that evening he’s reminded of the cage, and what transpired upon their coming face to face. He wonders if he’s the only one.

He’s suddenly exhausted, not just with the situation but most everything around him. Lakshmi hasn’t moved, stands resolute like the tower of strength that she is; if she intends to reply she shows no sign of it. Grayson, however, won’t let the silence last any longer.

“Speak, Alastair, while you still have a choice in the matter.”

“Ah, now _this_ is familiar.” Alastair looks at him. “More threats.”

It seems now it’s _their_ turn to stare each other down. Alastair’s not wrong: they’ve done this dance before, only this time around Alastair’s not injured, they’re not alone, and it’s not his first time delivering these intimidations. He’s been certain, ever since that first instance, that the day would come when Alastair would call his bluff. Now, he’s sure that moment has finally arrived. And he knows Alastair has won, and from the look on his face _he_ knows it too, and Grayson could get this situation under control again, but for all the anger in him he can’t bring himself to prove he’s willing.

“Grayson.”

Lakshmi’s voice breaks him out of their stalemate. As though coming out of a daze he blinks and turns her way, finds her standing close and watching him; somehow, despite the carefully blank expression on her face, he gets the feeling she sees right through to the heart of him.

“Perhaps we should try a different approach.”

At his silence she gestures with her head towards the stairs. He glances there, then back to her, and admittedly it’s not until she angles her body in that direction that he understands her meaning.

Grayson surges upright, laying a hand on her arm to stop her.

“No, Lakshmi – don’t give him the satisfaction.” He turns to Alastair, frustrated and uncaring if it shows. “Do you not realise even if she leaves I’ll simply tell her whatever it is you know the second I learn it?”

“I’m sure you would,” Alastair muses, “but I imagine we’ll be too far away for her to hear by then.”

The answer makes him frown, mind immediately catching on his use of _we_ , but from the corner of his eye he spots Lakshmi shaking her head, and before he can open his mouth to question him she’s speaking.

“That’s what this is. Safe passage in exchange for information?”

“How convenient for you to have made your home right next door to a port.”

He’s sure that if Alastair wasn’t bound to a chair he’d be projecting his confidence with every line of his body. As it is he can only sit there, but somehow even that he manages to make seem agreeable; he’s relaxed, as though it was always his decision to sit there, and the ropes just for show. Even as Lakshmi steps closer and starts making a slow circle around him he looks unfazed. It’s a far cry from the man who approached him from a darkened alley, a ghost of his former glory, and a brief spark of uncertainty jolts sharply up Grayson's spine. If this is what’s come of that moment, if he read it wrong, then maybe …?

He buries that thought in an instant.

Perhaps the one saving grace is that he doesn’t _look_ smug: there’s a glint in his eyes that speaks volumes, but nothing more than that. Alastair deserves some congratulations, he thinks then, for displaying such self-control.

He might’ve actually ended up with a punch to the face otherwise.

“You’ve lost all sense,” Grayson says, shaking his head. “What do you imagine could possibly be worth –”

“I know where Hastings is.”

Of all the things Alastair could’ve said to get him to shut up that’s easily the most effective. It stops Lakshmi in her tracks, too, and the two of them share a look over Alastair’s head. The wheels are already turning inside her mind, he can see it on her face; his own reaction is more instinctive.

“Bullshit.”

Alastair shrugs. “I suppose you don’t _have_ to take my word for it, but here I thought you _wanted_ to find our esteemed lord?”

He wants to laugh. “You don’t believe this … Lakshmi?”

The sight of her puts a stop to whatever he’d been about to say. Before it had been clear she was working through her thoughts; now he’s sure she’s reached her conclusions and doesn’t particularly like what they offer.

“Safe passage,” she echoes, “safe passage, but you’ll only tell Grayson.”

Their eyes meet. That thought from earlier returns with full force, how Alastair used _we_ before anything else, and now all the pieces of the puzzle are falling into place and he doesn’t like it, either.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Do you not see the appeal, Grayson? Two fallen brothers, cast offs of our Order, travelling together one final time …” He catches Grayson’s eye then, and the bastard almost manages to look wistful. “It could only ever be you.”

“You’re no brother of mine,” Grayson snarls, fists clenched and shaking. He doesn’t care if Alastair sees this time. On the contrary, he hopes he does.

Alastair makes a considering noise. “Regardless, you’ll need me if you hope to find him.”

Grayson grits his teeth against everything he wants to say, resists the urge to pace the room. The leather of his gloves is already straining with how hard he’s clenching his hands; he can’t just keep standing there, not without wanting to rip something apart. He turns back to the table in the end, presses his fists into the wood and leans until his bones ache.

It’s only when the silence grows that he realises Lakshmi has yet to say her piece. She’s moved around to Alastair’s front, he finds when he looks her way, and her attention is locked on him. It doesn’t take Alastair long to notice, though to Grayson’s surprise he lets the silence linger rather than make a comment. He watches the two of them size each other up.

The quiet lasts a moment or two more, and then Lakshmi folds her arms over her chest.

“Betraying one ally wasn’t enough for you, Half-Breed? Or did you just enjoy the taste so much the first time you had to have another?”

Alastair doesn’t blink. “It must be so tiring, having such a dim understanding of the world.”

They’re back to staring each other down, though now there’s a palpable undercurrent of tension running between them. That none of this has yet devolved into bloodshed is a miracle, but he’s certain it’s only a matter of time the longer things go on.

“Lakshmi,” he calls, and straightens up, “we’ve gotten all we can out of him.”

She doesn’t move, and for a second he thinks she’s going to ignore him, but between one heartbeat and the next she turns, giving him a nod as she makes for the stairs. He follows not too far behind, locking eyes with Alastair one final time before he leaves.

“Do keep me informed of when we intend to depart, won’t you?”

Grayson gives no answer.

He comes to the second floor as Lakshmi seems to be escaping it, something suspiciously bottle-shaped clutched in one hand. Standing in the middle of the room, Devi looks from her mother’s retreating back to him; there’s a frown on her face, and her mouth is already open to demand answers of him. He can only offer a placating look, one hand raised in a request for patience, before he sets off after her.

The front door is cracked a fraction, and Nikola half-stands, attention locked on it: these are his clues as to where she’s gone. Nikola, too, looks like he wants to ask, but mercifully he doesn’t, gives only a tight-lipped nod and leaves him be.

They’re both lucky he doesn’t trip over her as he leaves the building. She’s far closer than he anticipates, sitting on the lowest step and staring out towards the court. Beside her rests the bottle, seemingly untouched. They’re alone out here, or so it appears; the other occupants of the court are indoors, as they should be at this hour, and if there are rebels keeping watch then they’re well concealed. With deliberate noise he shuts the door behind him and moves to sit beside her.

She’s uncorking the bottle and taking a swig before he’s fully settled down.

“Strange,” he says, watching her, “of all that I’ve seen you do, this is the most surprising.”

“If ever there was a time to start …” Lakshmi shrugs. Without turning to look his way she offers him the bottle.

He eyes it dubiously. It’s still mostly full, the liquid threatening to slosh over the rim as he takes it from her. In such dim light the bottle gleams dully, its colour lost almost completely, but even held at a distance, without a whiff of the contents, he has a feeling he knows what he’s about to taste.

He drinks. Absinthe sparks across his tongue, flavour immediate and undeniable. He swallows hard, unable to contain his grimace as it goes down.

“Now this is familiar.”

Lakshmi’s mouth quirks into a tiny smile. “You made quite the first impression.”

“Is that so,” he muses, passing the bottle back.

She takes a smaller drink this time, and now he notices the way her own face twists against the strength of the liquor. It lights a warmth in him, something amused and fond all at once, though he turns away before she can catch him looking at her like that. He’s lived long enough to know that moments like these are fleeting – there and gone, like a woman’s perfume before it’s caught by the breeze – and this one he wants to keep for himself.

She still won’t look at him, though, and that hint of a smile she wore only moments ago is already gone.

God knows he’s never been one to sit around waiting for the outcome he desires.

“This dramatic exit of yours,” he gestures, to themselves and their surroundings, “shall I claim responsibility for that as well?”

Lakshmi is quiet for a moment, eyes locked on the bottle as she turns it between her hands. “I’m surprised you came alone, to tell the truth. Devi was … rather concerned.”

“You’re not the only one.”

It’s no lie; that he’s sitting here, now, without any interference is a wonder in and of itself, but the fact that Devi didn’t plant herself firmly in his way and refuse to move is perhaps the true miracle. Considering the state of their relationship as of late, ‘surprised’ is putting it lightly.

He shifts a little where he sits, enough to look over his shoulder at the building. “Perhaps it was unwise, leaving Alastair unattended. She may come to the wrong conclusion.” He pauses. “Or the right one.”

“Would that really be such a loss?”

Her voice is so flat that if he wasn’t certain they were out here alone he’d think someone else entirely had spoken. For all that he’s only known her a short time – even more so in the life of a knight, where a relationship with anyone outside the Order is over in what seems the blink of an eye – he feels as though he’s come to understand her. Looking at her now, seeing this side of her, not beaten, but strangely demoralised, makes him question that presumption.

It’s serious, this situation they’ve found themselves in, he’s not so blind or callous he can’t see that. To treat it with anything less than the gravitas it deserves would be doing both of them a disservice.

“What would you do, in my place?”

Lakshmi shakes her head, and finally turns to face him. “I won’t make your decisions for you, Grayson. But I do not trust him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was first writing this chapter I was having such a hard time getting the conversation flowing, and then like a bolt from the blue it all came to me, true ~inspiration~ level shit. I was having so much fun, I couldn't really understand why. And then it hit me - I hadn't gotten to write Alastair in _ages_. Obviously he's been in bits and pieces before now, but the last time he got to truly be in the thick of things was like ... chapter six? Fucking _forever_ ago. I missed him!
> 
> Also all this Tumblr nonsense that's going on has got me down. Not that I ever linked to mine on here, it was mostly a relic I just used to post chapter updates, but still. If I ever get around to making and/or using a Pillowfort account I might link it, and anyone who wants to can hit me up on there.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never expected I'd be spending my Christmas night posting fic, but here we are! I hope you all have a happy and safe holiday season. <3 Also, tag update!
> 
> Chapter first posted 25 December 2018.

The conclusion they finally come to, following a long conversation in hushed tones, is to let the issue lie for a few hours, attempt to get some rest, and discuss everything with the involved parties – excepting Alastair, of course – in the light of day. It’s a fine plan. He’s not so thoughtless that he believes himself to have the final word in all this; while he may already be sure of how certain individuals will react, to leave them out of the dialogue entirely would be a far greater error in judgement.

No, the only flaw he finds in all this is the idea that he’ll be able to get any sleep at all. The rebels keep quiet, letting their shared – and not so secretive – glances do all the talking for them. Those certainly speak loudly enough. If the story’s any different on the first floor, he can’t tell; as their leader Lakshmi undoubtedly commands respect, but people will be people, and even the most devoted of followers can indulge in gossip.

Nikola looks bemused, even more so when all Grayson can offer him is the promise of enlightenment in the coming hours, but he doesn’t argue. He asks for no clarification at all, in fact, and Grayson is incredibly grateful for that.

There’s a spare corner for him to curl up in, and with nothing left for him to do he claims it. Sleeping rough is no issue; he has no delusions of asking any of the rebels for bedding, and he’s had more than enough experience bunking down on surfaces less forgiving than this. Just as he’d predicted, the problem comes when he settles in for what remains of the night and finds his mind refuses to quiet. Every shift and creak, every tiny noise that comes from a small house filled with many people catches his attention, and in any other scenario he’d be able to shut it out, but with his mind as active as it is it makes that all but impossible.

At some point sheer stubbornness wins out, and he lays there long enough with his eyes closed pretending to sleep that his mind takes mercy on him. When he opens his eyes again the room is significantly brighter, and most of the rebels have vacated the area. Where they’ve gone and what they could be doing is a mystery to him. Nikola is sitting in view not too far away, attention focused on whatever little thing he’s fiddling with. As Grayson begins to rise in earnest his gaze shifts in his direction.

“Good morning, Grayson.”

“Morning.”

“There is some food here for you, if you wish,” Nikola says, gesturing to a bowl near to him.

Grayson makes a considering noise, then heads over, trying to pretend he doesn’t in that moment feel every bit as old as he is. Nikola offers him the bowl as he settles down beside him, and Grayson peers at it curiously. It had been warm once, whatever it is – some kind of thick, formless slurry – but a meal is a meal, and he’s not about to complain.

“Devi and Lady Lakshmi are waiting upstairs.”

Grayson pauses, swallows his mouthful. “Have they said anything to you?”

“Little more than you did.”

He doesn’t know whether he’s surprised by that, though if it was done out of a desire to protect Nikola he supposes he can’t argue against it too strongly. He can only imagine the time Lakshmi’s had of it, trying to keep Devi at bay. Having one less person to worry about makes a certain kind of sense.

Grayson finishes his meal in silence, and when he’s done claps Nikola on the back and stands.

“Best not keep them waiting any longer, wouldn’t you agree?”

Nikola nods, and Grayson waits for him to file away whatever it is he’d been working on before leading the way to the stairs. He’s only taken a few steps when he notices the figure standing at the very top. It’s one of the rebels, though the face he doesn’t recognise. The man is armed, and holds his weapon at the ready, his gaze shifting from their captive down to Nikola and him.

“He has been under guard since the two of you stepped outside last night,” Nikola says, voice quiet, as though reading Grayson’s mind.

“Have you seen him?”

“No good would come of such a thing.”

He thinks, suddenly, that he never did pass along Alastair’s delirious apology, all those weeks ago in Queenhithe. Would it do any good to bring it up now? He never did quite determine whether the man was speaking truthfully, or if it was the guilty ramblings of a fevered mind. It isn’t hard to believe that Nikola, kind-hearted soul that he is, would find it in himself to forgive Alastair. The question is: does Alastair deserve such a boon?

He keeps his mouth shut and climbs the stairs.

He spots a few other rebels in the room as they reach the landing, meets their stares match for match. It only takes a few moments for their presence to be noticed by Devi and Lakshmi; the latter quickly waves her people on, and then it’s just the four of them.

“I hope rest came easier to you than it did me,” Grayson says, making his way over to the table where the two women stand.

Devi’s eyes are dark, matching the rest of her expression. She looks as though she wants to say something, but it’s Lakshmi that speaks instead.

“I was not so fortunate. We shared the same boat, it seems.”

“Can we move past the pleasantries?” Devi finally snaps, looking between the two of them. “What has the Lycan done now?”

He shares a glance with Lakshmi, silently trying to determine who should be the one to tell the tale. He dips his head in her direction; she sighs, leans forward to brace her hands against the table.

“Alastair has proposed an exchange of sorts,” Lakshmi begins slowly, “offering information regarding Hastings’ location for the promise of safe passage.”

The reactions are about what he expects. Nikola sighs deeply, taking a seat at the table and clasping his hands together, staring at them with a look of deep concentration. Devi, meanwhile, is shaking her head, arms folded over her chest as she begins pacing. Grayson knows what’s coming, though, and by the look on her face, Lakshmi is looking forward to it as much as he is.

“There’s more. Whatever he claims to know, he’ll only share with Grayson, and only if he travels alongside him.”

At least she got it over with quickly, he thinks. Then he catches sight of Devi, suddenly motionless and staring at her mother.

“Rani, no.”

Whatever she says next is lost on him as Devi returns to her native tongue; about all he can pick up of what she’s saying are words he already recognises, but even then, she’s speaking so quickly he almost can’t make them out. Her gestures convey her message well enough, vicious motions towards the ceiling and then at him, and while she hasn’t quite raised her voice the anger in it is plain.

Lakshmi’s hands are held in the universal request for peace, and she gives every answer in the same calm, steady voice he’s come to associate with her. Grayson’s sure out of all of them Devi would be the one to have heard it most, but before he can ponder whether that makes it more or less effective he notices Nikola, who’s turned towards him.

He knows the expression he’s wearing all too well.

“Are you truly considering this, Grayson?”

It’s obvious what’s coming. The words threaten to drag him down, but he won’t give himself an out.

“I can’t afford not to.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Devi whirls on him, switching seamlessly from one language – and argument – to the next. “You witnessed his treachery _first hand_ , and still you believe this to be a plan worth pursuing?”

Grayson frowns. “If it ends with me finding Hastings, how could I not?”

Devi’s hands are clenched tight, he notes, an expression of sheer fury on her face. She looks as though she’s keeping herself still through will alone. He glances Lakshmi’s way, then, expecting … something, a reaction of any kind from the rebel leader, but instead he finds her having taken some steps back from the table, arms crossed, a fist pressed against her mouth. She’s not looking at either of them, but he’s sure she’s listening to every word.

“You’re an even greater fool than I took you for,” Devi snarls.

“And here I thought you shared my desire to bring down your queen’s attacker. Perhaps I am a fool.”

“For allowing that thing to _use_ you like this? Without question.”

Grayson looks towards the ceiling and finds himself wondering if Alastair can hear every single exchange. “You think there isn’t even the possibility he’s speaking truthfully.”

She gives him an indulgent look. “A Half-Breed’s a Half-Breed.”

“Just like every rebel is a godless bedlamite?”

She’s moving almost before he can react, coming towards him with such intent he’s bracing for the fight even before it’s begun –

“Devi.”

Lakshmi’s voice cuts through the fog that’s settled over them both, bringing Devi to a near immediate stop. His blood is still buzzing with the instinct to fight, but he reigns it in, settles back into a more relaxed stance. He’d been certain, even as the decision was being made, that he could predict exactly the reactions this news would evoke, so he can’t say he’s surprised, but the breadth of Devi’s anger leaves an undeniable impression nonetheless.

Lakshmi, whose attention has been on Devi until this point, now turns her gaze to him. Her raised eyebrow can only mean one thing, and he agrees: it’s time for another approach.

Grayson takes a moment, attempting to gather his thoughts as he watches Devi. “We were on opposite sides of this fight not so long ago, were we not?”

“You think him an _ally_ now?”

He fights off a sigh. So much for a new approach.

“What I mean,” he holds up his hands, speaking before she gets the chance, “is that aid may come from unexpected sources. He is the only one to offer knowledge of Hastings’ location –”

“You presume he can be trusted.”

It’s Nikola this time, the sound of his voice nearly catching him off guard. He looks as serious as Grayson’s ever seen him, something in his eyes strangely detached; evaluative, as though he’s working through a problem he has no particular emotional connection to. He hates that he’s responsible for this, this version of Nikola that seems so different to the one he cares for.

“I won’t deny the risk involved,” Grayson answers, hoping he sounds as honest as he means to, “but if there’s even the slightest chance he’s telling the truth I _cannot_ let this opportunity go. I understand your concerns, more than you may think, but he is a necessary evil.”

There’s nothing but silence following his declaration. Nikola isn’t the only one he’d been trying to persuade, as futile a task as it might be, and he looks between him and the other target of his convictions. Devi, however, seems not only unimpressed, but as angry as ever. She looks to ignore him completely, in fact, turning instead towards Lakshmi.

“Rani …”

Between the strength of Devi’s opposition and Nikola’s quiet concern he’s almost overlooked the third person he needs to convince. In any other scenario he might take her silence as an answer, but with how she’s been watching all of this unfold, how she’s watching him now –

There’s something in her eyes that wasn’t there before. He doesn’t know what this new expression means, and by the way her attention finally shifts away, he’s not going to find out. It leaves him feeling strangely at odds, exposed in a way he can’t quite explain.

“I do not think this wise,” Lakshmi says, “but Grayson’s reasoning is … understandable.”

If Grayson thinks he’s surprised he’s got nothing on Devi; the young woman only stares.

“Lady Lakshmi –”

“That does not mean the conversation is over.” She looks between Devi and Nikola, intent conveyed with a nod of her head. “We know from our incursion that Hastings is focused on spreading his kind through the Americas. Alastair knows this; his appearance here suggests he means to take advantage of the fact, _and_ our position.” She turns to Grayson. “What is the likelihood of … persuading him to give up his information?”

“If it’s the kind of _persuasion_ I think you mean,” Grayson raises an eyebrow, “not likely. He knows now my threats are empty, and I’m certain he’d have you torture him to death before he gave you the satisfaction.”

The comment he expects from Devi doesn’t come: she’s turned away from the conversation, figuratively and literally, now standing away from the table and with her back to them. It’s strange that he finds himself concerned for her then, after all that’s transpired between them lately. Or perhaps it’s because of all that’s happened that he feels so troubled. He catches Lakshmi watching her too, and they share a glance. He finds much of his worry reflected there.

“Our intention was always to cross the Atlantic,” Lakshmi says after a while. “Since our arrival preparations have been underway to assure safe travel.”

She gestures to the table, and he follows her motion to find a pair of documents. He takes one with some care, admiring the quality of the work; it’s a passport, the sort used by travelling businessmen, only with the space for the name left blank. The other is its twin, albeit far less along in its completion. A clever precaution, even if it ends up being unnecessary: better to be prepared for anything than to be caught off-guard.

“Though I must admit, the possibility of using them in a manner such as this never occurred to me.”

Grayson glances up at that. “Have you reached a conclusion?”

Lakshmi is silent for a moment. Then she looks away.

“Devi? Nikola?”

“You know what I think, Rani.”

Devi doesn’t even bother to turn around, though she speaks with enough force it’d be impossible not to hear her. Almost all attention in the room shifts to Nikola then, and he looks entirely unsatisfied with the development.

“I cannot say I believe this to be the right course of action,” he says slowly, “but if there is no other way …”

Lakshmi nods. “A ship bound for New York City departs these waters in a matter of days. Until that time, we shall attempt to extract an answer from Alastair. Should this prove unsuccessful, Grayson, I leave the choice to you.”

For what should taste like victory Grayson finds himself feeling hollow instead. Lakshmi’s conditions are nothing but an empty gesture, a final act of opposition before succumbing to the outcome, and it begins to settle on him exactly what he’s agreed to, what he’s allowed to come to pass. By no means does he trust him, nor will he, but travelling with Alastair, even as a means to an end … He’s handing the man exactly what he wants.

His ego will be _insufferable_.

Devi’s already making her exit, without a word or backwards glance; he hears her stomping down the stairs, and then the sound of the front door banging shut. Nikola sighs, and then he too is rising to his feet. For a moment he simply stands, looking towards the ceiling, a frown caught between his eyes, and then he too is on his way.

Lakshmi sits back in her chair with a sigh of her own, and Grayson pauses, looking between her and the stairs, before he too takes a seat. He raises a brow at the look she gives him, daring her to speak her mind, but she says nothing. Instead she shifts out of her seat, crossing to one of the drawers in the corner of the room, returning a few seconds later with a set of glasses and a familiar bottle in hand.

“It seems this is becoming a habit,” he says, accepting the glass she passes him.

“Two incidents hardly qualifies as such. Besides, this is as much for you as it is me.”

She knocks back her drink. Grayson ponders how poorly he must appear for that to be the case, then follows her lead.

They sit in silence for a while. Grayson busies himself looking over the table’s varied contents – charts, inventory reports, and the passports again – while Lakshmi nurses her drink. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, and it allows him the opportunity to observe her for a spell.

“I had not thought you would agree with me.”

“Inevitability was beginning to rear its head,” she says.

“Inevitability?”

She levels him with an assessing frown. “Tell me, honestly: if I had told you that we would find Hastings on our own, that Alastair was to pay for his crimes and no other possibilities would be considered, would you have respected my decision?”

Grayson knows what he should say – what he might actually say, under other circumstances – but the words won’t come. He’s not entirely sure what might come out if he _does_ open his mouth, so he says nothing, for all that it’s an answer in itself.

She shakes her head at him. He knows she’s not surprised.

“I told you I understood your reasoning. I wasn’t lying.” She pauses, seeming to gather her thoughts. Her eyes are firmly on the table. “Do you not realise these may be our final days together? Even should he somehow fail to betray you, your odds of finding Hastings and returning alive …”

She trails off. That she’s spoken so freely is enough of a shock that he hardly knows how to reply. He’s glad suddenly that she’s facing away from him, for both their sakes; he can only imagine the expression he wears.

“I hadn’t thought you the sentimental type.”

She smiles a little at that. “You were not the ally I was expecting in all this. But I am glad to have met you.”

“You’ve said that much before.”

“So I have.”

It’s the way she says it, strangely wistful, especially for her, that catches his attention. She takes another drink and Grayson feels it out of nowhere, an abrupt and overwhelming burst of instinct; a seed planted one second and flowering the next. He wants to see her face properly in that moment, see if something exists there for him to read, but she’s no mind reader, and likely has no idea what he’s struggling with, and then his mouth is moving before he’s even thought things through.

“Lakshmi, was there ever – was I imagining …?”

She finally looks at him, the barest hint of confusion on her face. It somehow both makes him wish to stop immediately and forge ahead without hesitation; despite the fact that it’s an entirely ridiculous – and improper – thing to ask, he needs an answer.

“Devi once told me you’d taken a liking to me.”

She blinks. Then she laughs, quietly, and shakes her head. “Devious child.”

“Then she was wrong?”

Lakshmi sighs deeply, leaning forward to rest her arms on the table. She says nothing for a few long moments, turning her glass on its edge as she seems to think. He doesn’t take his eyes off her through any of it. He can’t, not with the kind of morbid curiosity now flooding his veins. Finally she meets his gaze, and he’s stunned to find she looks as exposed as he feels.

“Had we met under other circumstances, perhaps things might be different. But these are the paths our lives have taken, and continue to take, and nothing will change as long as that’s the case.”

Grayson sits back in his chair, feeling strangely as though all the air’s been knocked out of him. Not unpleasantly, which is perhaps the most unexpected part. It’s as though he’s settled utterly in the moment, mind made clear not only by the revelation, but by the fact that his instinct was correct.

She stares him down unflinchingly, bolder now the confession’s been made, but her face is blank, and it isn’t hard to see she’s bracing for something. Why, he wonders, when he was the one to ask? What cruelty does she expect from him?

He reaches for the bottle, fills both their glasses an appropriate amount. Then he lifts his in her direction.

“Perhaps in the next life, then.”

He sees the moment the words sink in as all the tension she’d held leaves her body, and that small, genuine smile he’s so fond of comes to life. She raises her glass and clinks it against his own.

“To the next life.”

The thought follows him through the remaining hours of the day, latching onto him in earnest after he’s bunked down for the night and there’s little in the way of escape. Once it’s begun he finds it difficult to stop, thoughts calling loudly for attention: how many different ways could his life have unfolded? What would’ve had to have changed for him to remain a loyal Knight, blind to the truth? In how many versions of events does he obey the Lord Chancellor, and murder Alastair?

What does it take for the him of a different world to remain here, with Lakshmi and her rebels?

He’s sure he can’t believe that this is how it was always meant to play out; destiny is a fool’s notion and he knows, for all it pains him to admit, he could’ve made decisions that would have lead him elsewhere.

Would he have acted on them, though? His own words, spat at the Lord Chancellor following Sebastien’s death, come back to him then, and he can’t honestly say he knows with any real certainty.

Even with all his years behind him he’s found the world still has its oddities. Cycles repeat, and patterns emerge, even when there’s no logical reason for them to; actions echo on and on, undoubtedly different on their return and yet the core remains the same. Malory chases after the Rebellion and ends up dead; Grayson follows what he started to its inevitable end and finds himself a different kind of ghost. Malory, willing to disregard the tenants of their Order to shed light on a conspiracy; Grayson, willing to cooperate with his once enemies to expose it further. The two of them, pursuing truth perhaps even beyond the bounds of reason, and paying for it dearly.

And now Grayson stands on the very edge of doing it once more, to believe the word of a man he should never have faith in again.

It’s an unending circle, a snake eating its own tail.

An ouroboros.

Sleep does not favour him that particular night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only note I left for myself for what became the final scene of this chapter was "ouroboros", which ... made it very difficult when it finally came to write it, lemme tell you. So there's a tip, free of charge - always leave yourself some context/detail in your notes!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bunch of notes at the end as well, but for this one I wanted to say that I made a fic banner! It's allllll the way up the top at the start of chapter one. Fic banners have always been a Fanfic Thing I've loved, and this is probably the best opportunity I'll ever have for one, so I decided to just go for it. Making pretty images has never been my strong suit, but I'm happy with it, so whatever.
> 
> Happy New Year!
> 
> Chapter first posted 8 January 2019.

The days pass, as they are wont to do. Grayson does his best to strike a balance between keeping out of the way and not losing his mind to boredom; now that the rebels have a deadline the safe house is a hive of activity, everyone with a task of their own, and while they don’t come and go with the frequency they had in London there’s still more movement than he expects.

Someone visits Alastair at least once a day, Lakshmi more often than not. He can’t not watch, can’t not strain to hear whatever’s going on above their heads, even when he comes away with nothing. He has enough faith in her to be sure she hasn’t given _persuasion_ a try, even if he thinks some part of her might believe it necessary. He wonders, then, if she ever did end up seeing the injuries Alastair sustained at the hands of her people while imprisoned, if that’s the cause of her sudden vigilance.

Devi keeps well clear, a fact he’s thankful for, and if the extra guards on duty watching Alastair have anything to do with her, nobody says a word.

Watching them, Grayson finds himself wondering how many of the rebels know the reality of the situation, and how it’s likely to play out. How many of them would still follow Lakshmi?

Then again, perhaps he’s giving them too little credit. His own induction to the cause came without a riot or mutiny in sight.

One morning, when the cruel chill of winter creeps through enough of the house to wake him earlier than usual, he finds Nikola already up and dressed for the day. The other man gives him some time to compose himself, then bids him follow him outside, and with little on the agenda for the day, Grayson does so.

Snow must have fallen at some point overnight – the ugly grey slurry that remains in the streets is evidence enough – and he wouldn’t be surprised to see it happen again soon. Between the frigid temperature and the early hour they encounter little traffic on the road, everyone either in too much a hurry to reach their destination or too distracted by the weather to pay anything else attention. Nikola looks a little ridiculous, bundled up in a borrowed coat too large for him, but it’s better than freezing. Grayson’s too busy burying himself in his own clothing to think on it any more deeply than that.

Soon the smell of the streets is blown away, replaced by the crisp scent of winter and wind off the water, and it’s that – along with the way the breeze grows colder – that tells him where they’re headed before they get there.

Sure enough, the Port of Liverpool comes into view proper, docks and their ships stretching out almost beyond his sight. Nikola pulls him to a stop in the shadow of a building, before they get too close, and there, huddling together for warmth, he points out towards the sea.

“There. Do you see her?”

Grayson removes his monocular, scans the direction indicated.

“RMS _Etruria_?”

“She is your intended vessel. Accommodations may not be to an especially high standard, but your travel has been secured, at the very least.”

“Better than swimming our way across,” Grayson says and, pulling the device away from his eye, finds he’s rewarded with a smile.

It’s a fine ship; most of them still are, despite the growing trend towards airships like the _Agamemnon_. Considering the dramatic fate of the flagship he wouldn’t be surprised should travellers return to seafaring, even if only until United India has swayed opinion enough back in their favour. He thinks then about the kind of people he saw that day, the beautiful women in their fine dresses, the handsome men in their tailored suits; until the day comes when everyone can afford such luxury there’ll always be room for alternate forms of transport.

Not that he particularly expects the well-bred members of London society to look forward to, or do anything to help bring about, such a day.

“I have a friend there. In New York City.”

Nikola’s voice brings him back to the present. The man is staring out to sea, his hands now squashed firmly into his armpits. Grayson moves as subtly as he can, trying to shield him from more of the wind.

“His name is Alley. I had word sent ahead, should you require any assistance – there’s a building on Liberty Street. This is where you shall find him.”

Nikola passes him a note with shaking hands; Grayson takes it quickly. The street name and number is written in a hasty scrawl, far removed from what he recognises as his script. Grayson pockets the note, wondering when Nikola decided to share this information.

“He is … a good man. You can trust him.”

“Thank you, Nikola.”

Nikola nods, eyes briefly meeting his own before darting away again. Then he turns, and it seems their little excursion out into the cold has reached its end, as he begins to walk back the way they came. Grayson remains for a moment longer, gaze on the ship, before he follows after him. Nikola seems distracted, his attention firmly on the ground under his feet; his state is enough that it’s all Grayson can concentrate on.

Their last conversation comes back to him, the words they exchanged before all of the nonsense surrounding Alastair descended. He can’t pretend he’s forgotten how he felt in that moment – he still feels the echoes of it, thinking on it now – but things are beginning to carry a sense of finality he’s unable to ignore.

“A moment, Nikola?”

“Blundell Street is not far –”

“Nikola, please.”

Some combination of his words and his tone must do the job, as Nikola pauses, then glances back at him. Grayson urges him closer to the building nearby, as far out of the weather’s reach as possible. Only when they’re standing together does he speak.

“I take it you have no intention of crossing the Atlantic.”

“I must confer with Lady Lakshmi. No doubt there will be others making the journey, if not at the same time.” He falters a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. “I only wish to go where I will be most useful.”

“It may be some time before we see each other again.”

Nikola goes silent at that, seemingly unwilling to respond. Grayson pushes on.

“I do not wish for us to part on unhappy terms. Should something happen –”

“Grayson –”

“I would hate for you to believe I thought any different of you after our … disagreement, the other day. I apologise; I should not have tried to force you. Your secrets are yours to keep, and you have no obligation to share them if you do not wish to.” He reaches out to grasp Nikola’s shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. “It will never be enough, but … thank you, my friend, for all you have done.”

Nikola is staring at him, such a wide-eyed expression of shock on his face that Grayson almost chuckles. He feels lighter, better now that he’s said what needed to be; everything else is out of his hands. With one last clap of his shoulder he starts to move away.

“You _will_ meet, in time. I have no doubt.”

Grayson stops, turns. Nikola is not shocked now, but resolute, as sure as he’s ever seen him.

“Just as I have no doubt we shall see each other again. If anyone could find Hastings, I believe in you most of all.”

Touched, Grayson lets himself smile. “There are a great many people in New York, my friend. Who’s to say he hasn’t already moved on?”

“I have faith in you.” Nikola steps closer then, as though sharing a secret. “Thank you, Grayson.”

Their return to the safe house, and the time that follows, is far more pleasant than all that came before it.

It isn’t long at all after that, it seems, that Lakshmi comes to him.

“The _Etruria_ departs tomorrow at midday,” she says, setting down a travel bag beside him. “This should be enough to see you through. Your documents are inside. Take a look, before you board.”

“And Alastair?”

“He’ll need fresh clothes if you wish to take him with you. Possibly a bath.”

She got nothing from him, then. He can’t say he’s surprised. Rather than dwell on the thought any longer he pulls the bag towards himself, looks inside. Their papers sit nearest to the top; he passes over them for the moment, looking instead to that which hides below. What appears to be a spare pair of shirts and trousers, a small collection of dry goods wrapped in a bundle, and at the very bottom, a large case, filled with stationery and other small trinkets. There’s something off about the way the inside looks, though, and after a moment of fiddling what seems to be the base comes loose, and he lifts it up to reveal a revolver-shaped recess, and a handful of ammunition.

“I hope you’re not depriving yourself on my account,” Grayson says, as stern as he can be.

“We have reserves enough to spare. Besides, it would be rude of me to send you off without a parting gift.”

“I mean it, Lakshmi. Even if half the things here came scavenged, the expense of the rest …”

The look she gives him then is hard to decipher. Eventually she just shakes her head, and says, “Your concern is touching, Grayson, but better served elsewhere.”

Something must show on his face then, some dissatisfaction that he hadn’t managed to hide in time, because she stops in the process of walking away, turns to face him properly.

“Come now, have you forgotten how resourceful we can be? All good rebel leaders have their secrets.”

If she were anyone else, he thinks, she might’ve winked at him then. Instead she leaves him to his thoughts. He sets his revolver inside the box immediately, ensuring it’s hidden properly even as his mind begins to ponder the rest. The clothes will have to go to Alastair if he’s in as dire need as Lakshmi suggests. He’ll have to stash his blades inside their luggage, too, or hope they aren’t searched upon boarding; they’ll be travelling as legitimate passengers, yes, but that doesn’t remove the threat of discovery, and he refuses to put his faith in luck.

Not when he’s come this far.

A quick survey of his own pockets reveals little of value. Most of what he could live without had been discarded back in the London safe house, and he’s had neither the time nor the inclination to go foraging for useless trinkets during his stay here. He does find, crumpled nearly beyond recognition but somehow still intact, the folded pages of sketches he’d made back at the Queenhithe warehouse; he sets them aside, to be forgotten or thrown away by a rebel, whichever comes first. There’s something more pressing to consider, a solid weight inside one of the pockets of his coat. He recognises it the second his fingers make contact.

Alastair’s Blackwater vial.

He doesn’t remove it, instead mindlessly traces the edges of the metal. In truth it hasn’t crossed his mind for some time, so much so he’s surprised it’s still there, still safe and sealed.

He should get rid of it, he thinks, drawing his finger slowly along the pattern on the front. Alastair has no need for it, not practically and certainly not sentimentally. It’s nothing but a weight in Grayson’s pocket. He should throw it into the waters of the port, let it sink into the depths and be forgotten; it would be fitting. Poetic, in its own way.

Yet when he pulls his hand from his pocket the vial remains exactly where it’d been.

A decision for another time.

It’s with some reluctance he detaches his communicator and sets it aside, safely out of trampling range. He can’t know exactly how much use he’ll get from it across the sea, and more to the point it needs a partner to function; he’d be depriving Nikola to empower Alastair, and neither of those options hold much appeal.

Scratching his cheek, he feels the length of the scruff that’s grown in. And here he thought Alastair looked ragged; Grayson can only imagine how he himself appears. Still, if it gives anyone searching for him even a moment’s hesitation he supposes he can’t complain.

He’s not a vain man, has never taken much pride in his appearance beyond the standard required, but the moment he can safely afford to he’s going to trim his hair and beard.

All that’s left is to take a look at the travel documents. Whichever one had been incomplete before, it’s impossible to tell now; they’re quite possibly the finest forgeries he’s ever seen. The passports aren’t necessary, more an added layer of their deception, but he’s not about to turn them down. There are a few pounds hidden amongst the papers, more than he’d expect and more than he’s comfortable taking, and he thinks Lakshmi should be grateful he’s only now discovered them. He most certainly would’ve voiced his disagreement otherwise. It’s only then that he notices the names etched onto the papers, and he has to hide his amusement behind his hand.

He won’t miss this place, with its small, crowded rooms. Nor will he miss Liverpool itself, with its congested streets and unfamiliar terrain. Leaving behind the few remaining people he cares for, and this ever-changing land he calls home? He can’t pretend he won’t feel their absence.

And Nikola’s optimism isn’t as contagious as it once was.

The morning of their departure finally arrives, as certain and unavoidable as the sunrise. He wakes early, though that’s less of a surprise than the fact he managed to sleep at all; now that he’s awake the weight of inevitability is already descending upon him, and there’s nothing to do but gather his belongings and make ready to leave.

The few rebels that are similarly awake surprise him as he passes, nodding or murmuring greetings, and he tries not to be amused by the thought that strikes him then: all he needed to do for the rebels to acknowledge him was leave.

Lakshmi is at the table already, deep in thought. She raises a hand in greeting as he reaches the top of the stairs, but nothing more than that, and as quickly as she’d noticed him she looks away. The expression she wears is one that’s becoming far too common on her. Grayson finds himself hoping he can be responsible for at least one change that will see it gone, even if only for a little while.

There’s a small wooden tub filled with water waiting on the landing when he reaches the top floor. A rag hangs half over the rim, already wet. What’s more remarkable is the clothes stacked beside it, not dissimilar from the ones in Grayson’s luggage. Someone’s feeling generous. He’s honestly not sure who.

The two on guard drop into a more relaxed stance on seeing him; they move closer to the stairs as he comes further in, speaking in low voices to each other. Alastair’s eyes are closed. He seems to have found the most comfortable position one can whilst bound to a chair, and while the lighting leaves much to be desired Grayson can see no marks upon him. Not that it necessarily means he’s gone unharmed – his healing ability might simply have masked the damage – but he feels rewarded in his confidence in Lakshmi’s treatment of him.

Alastair breathes in, slow and deep. Then his eyes open.

“I was beginning to think you’d left me behind.”

Grayson refuses to be influenced by such theatrics. He lifts the tub from where it sits, carries it to the table and tries not to slosh the contents over the sides. The clothes are next, placed a safe distance away lest they end up splashed. Finally, he turns to Alastair, pulls free his blade.

“Only because leaving you restrained would draw too much attention,” he says, and starts to cut him free.

“Such mercy. Truly a man of noble – tch!”

Grayson stands, pointedly ignoring the way Alastair clutches one forearm, and the slow trickle of blood that’s escaping his grip.

“Boarding begins within the hour. Ready yourself.”

Alastair frowns, but says nothing. What he does is make a show of getting to his feet, stretching every limb in the most languid way possible. Grayson folds his arms across his chest and notes the splash of red near Alastair’s wrist – no longer bleeding. Privacy isn’t an option, but he does mostly turn away when Alastair finally strips down and begins washing himself with all the efficiency a tub and rag demands. It isn’t long before he hears the tell-tale sound of fabric against skin, the stomp of feet fitting into boots, and when he looks again he finds Alastair fully clothed, pulling his borrowed coat closed.

“Satisfied?” he asks, spreading his arms.

At least he no longer _looks_ as though he’s spent the past several days tied to a chair inside a court dwelling. Surely that must count for something.

“Downstairs,” is all Grayson says in reply. Alastair gives him an unimpressed look, but he doesn’t argue, and Grayson trails after him a few steps back as they slowly make for the exit.

Lakshmi has left her place on the floor below; Devi stands there instead, all the quiet, thrumming fury of a thundercloud.

He hesitates, all the things he can think to say racing through his mind. In the end all he can settle on is, “Take care, Devi.”

Alastair has stopped, and now turns back to watch them.

Devi, meanwhile, seems to look right through him, no recognition in her eyes or change in her face to suggest she heard him. Instead her gaze slides over to land on Alastair, and Grayson catches the way her frown deepens immediately.

“Good riddance.”

Alastair’s eyes grow bright at that. Grayson knows what’s coming, reaches out to shove him down the stairs, but isn’t quick enough to stop him from calling:

“Until next time, then?”

That he doesn’t push him all the way to the bottom after that is a true miracle.

Every eye in the room turns to them as they step out onto the floor, and Grayson senses the way Alastair is puffing himself up, flourishing under the attention, building to something –

He steers him towards the door before anything can be said. As he steps outside he glances back, unable to resist one final look, and what he sees almost brings him to a stop entirely. Lakshmi and Nikola stand there, emerging from the crowd until they’re all he sees. He could cross to them in a matter of steps and yet they’ve never felt further from him than in that moment; looking at them, he thinks he sees his expression reflected back at him.

He doesn’t trust himself to speak. In the end there’s nothing he can do but nod his goodbye, hoping that everything he wants to say, every bit of gratitude and fondness and resignation, is readable on his face.

Then he steps outside and closes the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The internet tells me passports weren't much of a thing before WW1, though apparently merchants and diplomats could/would carry them as a means of showing their legitimacy.
> 
> \- The [RMS](https://www.alamy.com/stock-image-1887-engraving-of-the-cunard-liner-rms-etruria-163455624.html?pv=1&stamp=2&imageid=B87624DC-8AFD-41F8-A53E-413162D5FFEB&p=289183&n=0&orientation=0&pn=1&searchtype=0&IsFromSearch=1&srch=foo%3dbar%26st%3d0%26pn%3d1%26ps%3d100%26sortby%3d2%26resultview%3dsortbyPopular%26npgs%3d0%26qt%3drms%2520etruria%26qt_raw%3drms%2520etruria%26lic%3d3%26mr%3d0%26pr%3d0%26ot%3d0%26creative%3d%26ag%3d0%26hc%3d0%26pc%3d%26blackwhite%3d%26cutout%3d%26tbar%3d1%26et%3d0x000000000000000000000%26vp%3d0%26loc%3d0%26imgt%3d0%26dtfr%3d%26dtto%3d%26size%3d0xFF%26archive%3d1%26groupid%3d%26pseudoid%3d%26a%3d%26cdid%3d%26cdsrt%3d%26name%3d%26qn%3d%26apalib%3d%26apalic%3d%26lightbox%3d%26gname%3d%26gtype%3d%26xstx%3d0%26simid%3d%26saveQry%3d%26editorial%3d1%26nu%3d%26t%3d%26edoptin%3d%26customgeoip%3d%26cap%3d1%26cbstore%3d1%26vd%3d0%26lb%3d%26fi%3d2%26edrf%3d%26ispremium%3d1%26flip%3d0%26pl%3d) [Etruria](https://www.alamy.com/ss-etruria-new-york-to-liverpool-november-8th-to-15th-1890-rms-etruria-was-a-transatlantic-ocean-liner-built-by-john-elder-amp-co-of-glasgow-sc-image206668758.html?pv=1&stamp=2&imageid=7E3286FA-BEDF-451B-842A-7EB8F78E6F1C&p=29007&n=0&orientation=0&pn=1&searchtype=0&IsFromSearch=1&srch=foo%3dbar%26st%3d0%26pn%3d1%26ps%3d100%26sortby%3d2%26resultview%3dsortbyPopular%26npgs%3d0%26qt%3drms%2520etruria%26qt_raw%3drms%2520etruria%26lic%3d3%26mr%3d0%26pr%3d0%26ot%3d0%26creative%3d%26ag%3d0%26hc%3d0%26pc%3d%26blackwhite%3d%26cutout%3d%26tbar%3d1%26et%3d0x000000000000000000000%26vp%3d0%26loc%3d0%26imgt%3d0%26dtfr%3d%26dtto%3d%26size%3d0xFF%26archive%3d1%26groupid%3d%26pseudoid%3d%26a%3d%26cdid%3d%26cdsrt%3d%26name%3d%26qn%3d%26apalib%3d%26apalic%3d%26lightbox%3d%26gname%3d%26gtype%3d%26xstx%3d0%26simid%3d%26saveQry%3d%26editorial%3d1%26nu%3d%26t%3d%26edoptin%3d%26customgeoip%3d%26cap%3d1%26cbstore%3d1%26vd%3d0%26lb%3d%26fi%3d2%26edrf%3d%26ispremium%3d1%26flip%3d0%26pl%3d).
> 
> \- Alley is _not_ an OC! And if you recognise him from nothing but his name then you're automatically my best friend forever. Tesla also totally had a [laboratory](http://martinhillortiz.blogspot.com/2015/11/teslas-liberty-street-laboratory.html) on Liberty Street, though in real life he didn't rent it until 1887. With the way this game messes around with time and events I didn't think it was too big a reach to use it.
> 
> And last but not least, with this chapter we've officially concluded Part One! :o Holy shit I can't believe it. \o/
> 
> Part One's title, **Virtus Sola Nobilitas** , is the motto on [Isabeau's crest](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/theorder1886/images/7/7e/Igraine_2.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20150205075046), and is translated as **"virtue alone ennobles"**.
> 
> As always a massive thanks to everyone who's read this far, or read anything at all, or left a comment or kudos - it means the world to me, and I'll never stop saying such. <3


	25. Part Two: Per Virtus Vincemus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two, here we go! Beginning with this chapter I'm going to attempt a weekly posting schedule. I didn't quite get as far as I would've liked before reaching this point, but hopefully the thought of posting weekly will terrify me enough into writing quicker???? idek omg what am I doing D:
> 
> Chapter first posted 22 January 2019.

The day has grown no warmer with the passing of the hours. They’re shielded from the worst of the wind in the cradle of these buildings but that does nothing for the cold itself, and as he stands there he catches Alastair discreetly tug his coat closer around himself. It brings him a perverse kind of joy to see, though he makes no comment on it. It’s only going to get colder.

“Move,” he says, nodding towards the small gap between buildings that serves as a street. Alastair raises an eyebrow at him, but after a moment does so. Tightening his grip on their luggage, Grayson follows.

They travel not quite in line with one another, Grayson hanging half a step or so behind Alastair with the intent of keeping a better eye on him. To the casual observer little would seem out of place, but Alastair knows him too well. They’ve only just made it onto the road leading to the port when he glances back over his shoulder, the ghost of a smirk on his face.

“Waiting for something, Grayson?”

“Should I not be?”

Alastair makes a tutting noise, shaking his head. “And here I was believing we were back to understanding one another.”

“I think I understand you perfectly,” he replies, keeping his voice as disinterested as he can make it. “It’s only a matter of time before your true nature shows itself once more.”

“Is that so.”

He says nothing else. Grayson’s thankful for the return to silence, and keeps his own in turn, and they continue on. There seems to be more people on the street today, though whether that’s actually the case or just his imagination, he isn’t sure. Certainly they’ll start seeing them more the closer they get to the dock. Boarding will have begun by now, he doesn’t need to check his pocket watch to be confident of that, and while they still have more than enough time he’d rather they get there sooner than later.

“I don’t believe these boots are my size.”

It isn’t anywhere near as satisfying, clenching one fist as opposed to two.

Would it really have been such a loss, had Lakshmi managed to extract an answer from him? He’s beginning to wonder.

They’re past the point now of where he and Nikola performed their brief reconnaissance and only getting closer to the dock. It quickly seems he’s proven right about the presence on the streets, though in the most unpleasant way possible. More and more of the port’s guardsmen become visible to him, uniforms and armament standing out among the mixed finery of the people. They patrol along the street, stand at odd intervals looking out over the water and the docks both, and they’re not the only ones keeping watch: less frequently, but still more than he’d like, they pass police officers on duty, less vigilant than their port counterparts but no less a threat.

Just because he hasn’t seen any police sketches of himself doesn’t mean they don’t exist. In fact, he’s almost certain they do, and it’s only luck – and how rarely he left the safe house – that’s prevented him from encountering them. How long until his fortune changes?

He thinks of his blades, hidden away safely inside his luggage, wedged into the secret compartment alongside his revolver. It’d been a miracle they all fit inside the space. For all the necessity of concealment the one detail Grayson finds himself unable to move past is just how _naked_ he feels without them.

If Alastair shares his concern – or has any of his own – he doesn’t show it, still moving with the same steady gait he’s used since stepping out into the open. Grayson can’t see his face from where he is, has no idea the kind of thoughts that might be breaking through to show there. One thing that _is_ clear is that he’s just as aware of their surroundings as Grayson is, subtle little movements of his head giving him away, and try as he might Grayson can’t quite silence the voice wondering if there’s something more devious he’s on the lookout for. The United India Company have their claws in everything, but to what extent? Would they even think to look for Alastair here, presuming the man in question didn’t prompt them to?

Staring at the back of Alastair’s head he realises they’re missing something. Gentlemen wear hats, don’t they? Businessmen, like the ones they’re imitating, wear hats. They’ll likely already stand out, as unkempt as they are, and any discrepancy that will see them scrutinised is one they can do without.

Why did he not think to ask for a hat?

Alastair chooses that moment to come to a stop, successfully dragging Grayson back into the present. Peering around him, he quickly learns why.

They’ve come upon the dock faster even than he anticipated. A crowd gathers in the near distance, spectators and passengers alike, the ship that sits at the centre of their attention having crept up quickly for something of its size.

“Last chance to run, Alastair.”

Alastair glances back at him. “This has moved beyond tiresome.”

Grayson bites down the sarcastic response waiting to spring forth and focuses instead on searching through their luggage.

“I assume you have a plan in all this? Grayson?”

“Not Grayson,” he replies. “Arthur.”

“Beg pardon?”

Grayson straightens up, in one hand their passports and in the other, the tickets. “Arthur Slate. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but we both know the truth of that.”

He offers Alastair’s own passport, ignoring the disbelieving look on the man’s face. Grayson watches him carefully. He knows what’s coming, and that disbelief is only going to grow.

He only has to wait a moment. Alastair’s eyes immediately focus in on the area in question; a moment later they narrow, almost imperceptibly.

“Clearly your rebel friends missed their calling elsewhere,” he says, not looking away from the paper. “Comedy seems to be more their style.”

“Be grateful it wasn’t worse.”

He holds his hand out for the page. Alastair finally comes out of his trance, looks at Grayson, his outstretched hand. Then he files the passport away in his coat pocket instead.

Grayson’s arm drops back to his side. It’s a struggle not to let his bewilderment show. “ _This_ is how you choose to rebel?”

“This document alleges I’m a businessman. An associate of yours, no doubt. What kind of partner would I be if I couldn’t manage my own paperwork?”

“The entirely untrustworthy kind,” Grayson all but growls.

“Yet here we are,” Alastair says, spreading his hands, gesturing around them. “And somehow, entirely within character for this _duplicitous_ creature you’ve envisioned, I’ve left the most important aspect in _your_ hands.”

Grayson frowns. “As though you’d let so minor a detail deter you.”

“If you wish to stand here debating all day there’s little I can do to stop you,” he shrugs, effortless and carefree, “but if you’re finished with this ridiculousness we should move on. Our vessel is waiting.”

They stare each other down. There’s a challenge there, as there always is between them nowadays, little poking, prodding tests of will, each of them attempting to determine the boundaries of this current form of their relationship. As though whatever exists between them deserves to be called such. For all that Alastair likes to push him Grayson has no qualms about standing his ground, or even pushing back; if Alastair thinks forcing him to tip his hand as he did in the safe house has lessened his resolve any, he’ll find himself disappointed.

“If you’re so eager then by all means,” and he motions towards the dock, “lead the way.”

Alastair eyes him, and Grayson’s just waiting for the heels to dig in, but he only sets his jaw and makes for the ship.

Grayson follows close behind until they find their way to the back of a line. Over the drone of the crowd he hears the calls of ticket salesmen, attempting to lure customers right until the last; judging by the throng of people gathered in the direction of the cries, they’re having some success.

It’s difficult to not feel out of place when he already expects every minute to end in discovery. Most of those waiting are content keeping to themselves, distracted enough by the demands of their own lives to pay attention to anything around them, but there are a few who look his way, strangers that meet his gaze, tentatively return the nods he gives them.

No one’s run screaming for the authorities yet. He hopes that’s a good sign.

The line moves, slowly but surely.

It isn’t long before Alastair leans back towards him, voice quiet when he says, “Look.”

There, at the top of the gangway, on either side of the crewmate welcoming passengers aboard, stands a pair of the dock’s guards. They’re clearly armed and, despite the discomfort plain on the face of the crewmate, intent on performing their duties. Grayson watches the shuffle of passengers and notes how it’s the men, mostly single or travelling together, that they’re most keen on observing.

“Here.” Grayson passes forward one of the tickets.

“What was that you said about running?”

“Hilarious.”

Alastair appears unconcerned with the danger looming over them, and when it comes their time to ascend the gangway he leads the way without a hitch in his step. Grayson trails after him, keeping his face as neutral as possible. Arthur Slate has no reason to be worried. Arthur Slate is a legitimate businessman. Lacking a hat, certainly, but no less legitimate.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the crewmate says, managing to sound somewhat genuine, “welcome to the _Etruria_.”

“Good morning,” Alastair echoes, and presents his ticket.

From the corner of his eye Grayson spots one of the guards stepping closer.

“These two,” he says, voice low.

As Grayson tries to measure exactly how much interest he should show Alastair’s putting on a performance of his own, looking between the assembled men. “Is something the matter?”

“Of course not, sir, and we of the _Etruria_ sincerely apologise for any inconveniences this process may have upon your boarding, but with the recent unpleasantness in London, new safety precautions must be taken. Should you or your companion have any further documents related to your travel it would be much appreciated if you could produce them for us now.”

“Surely you don’t mean those thugs have made their way here?”

Grayson watches Alastair reach into his pocket and remove the passport, takes it as a sign to follow suit. The few seconds of distraction gives him the chance to observe, not so much the scene but Alastair: the way he’s holding himself, back straight and shoulders back; how he looks between the three men, casual enough to not arouse suspicion but clearly paying attention. What he finds himself thinking on most of all, though, is the way he'd sounded through it all. Perhaps it’s because all he’s heard out of Alastair lately has been little more than snide weaselling, but his tone, his entire manner of speaking … Alastair is indeed playing a character, and the role he’s channelling is that of Knight Commander.

It’s strange, to say the least.

The passport, meanwhile, has moved from the crewmate’s hands into one of the guards’. Grayson eyes him, catches the way he looks the page over before lingering in one specific spot.

“The hell kind of name is Weylin O’Donnell?”

Alastair’s sigh is explosive, the aborted half-turn in his direction all too easy to notice, but Grayson gives nothing away, and all the attention falls on Alastair as he gives his answer.

“The unfortunate kind. My parents were the cruel sort.”

The guard cocks an eyebrow at that, looks to his compatriot, who only shrugs. Frowning, he hands the passport back.

“Off you go, then.”

“Excellent, welcome aboard sir –”

“Yes, thank you,” Alastair says, stepping past all three. “And now for my business partner?”

Grayson’s already moving forward, both documents on offer.

“Welcome to the _Etruria_ , sir, and if I may apologise for –”

“Just give it here,” the guard snaps, and snatches the passport away.

Grayson can feel Alastair’s eyes on him, but he resists the urge to look, keeping his attention squarely on the guard. The man spends about as much time inspecting it as he did Alastair’s; there’s no comment about his name this time, but when he looks Grayson’s way again his frown has only deepened.

“What business you two in, anyway?”

It’s the other guard who speaks, watching him just as closely, arms folded across his chest. Grayson sizes him up.

“Imports,” he says.

“Exports,” Alastair says at the same time.

Both guards raise their eyebrows.

“… We handle one side each,” Grayson finishes.

There’s a moment where nothing happens, and all Grayson sees is the concerned look on the crewmate’s face, and how Alastair has edged closer to the proceedings, and the pistols that the guards both wear, how the two men have turned to face each other. There’s likely to be some heavier weaponry somewhere close by, but at this range, with nowhere to go, would they even _need_ –

A hand slaps against his chest and Grayson takes a step back, on instinct reaching for the offending appendage –

His fingers meet paper first.

The guard sneers. “Safe travels, _sir_.”

The crewmate’s relief is nearly palpable. “Wonderful, wonderful news. Thank you for your patience, gentlemen, and please allow me to once again –”

“Thank you,” Alastair cuts in, “for your diligent work preserving our safety. Every passenger here owes you their gratitude.”

Grayson barely keeps from rolling his eyes. “Indeed.”

“Rather than continue holding up the line I believe we’ll be on our way. Arthur?”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice. With a nod to the crewmate Grayson brushes past him, finally off the gangway and onto the ship proper. The two guards are still eyeing him, and if he can’t resist glancing back their way, meeting the challenge they offer with his own, at least they don’t immediately come charging after them.

He follows after Alastair with no complaint, content to let the man navigate the endless corridors and the litany of helpful crewmates offering them directions to their room. Most of those they pass on their way are plainly citizens, excited travellers eager to begin their journey; the few that meet his gaze offer guileless smiles and greetings, and nothing more. The knot of anxiety that’s been tight around his chest this entire time is slowly beginning to loosen. Relaxed isn’t the word he’d use, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he thinks they may have avoided the worst of the danger for now.

It’s only then that he realises neither of the guards ever asked to inspect their luggage. If there is in fact some force out there watching over them, they have a strange sense of humour.

“Here we are. Home, sweet home.”

Grayson blinks, and comes back to the moment to find Alastair pushing open a cabin door. He doesn’t wait for an invitation, pushes his way past and into the room. There’ll be time to examine the interior in greater detail later; the first thing his eyes fall upon is a bed, and without any further thought he crosses the floor, places his bag at its foot, and settles himself down.

From the direction of the entrance he hears Alastair sigh, and shut the door.

“I don’t suppose you wish to view the sailing?”

Grayson says nothing.

“Perhaps we’re such seasoned travellers we have no need to attend such ceremonies.”

The words wash over him, as weak and inconsequential as a gentle stream. Grayson tugs his boots off, sets them beside the luggage.

“Of course, there won’t be anyone to wave you goodbye, will there?”

Rather than answer, he allows himself to flop onto his back, links his hands across his chest.

There’s no noise at all in the cabin for a few moments, nothing but what can be heard of the commotion outside filtering through the walls. Then there’s the sound of movement, the squeak of a bed frame adjusting to the weight of a body, and a long, long release of breath.

“Silence it is, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Running full bore into "don't explain the joke" territory, but I had too much fun coming up with their aliases, so whatever:
> 
> Arthur Slate = Arthur for the Knights of the Round Table connection, Slate because it's another kind of grey (lol geddit).
> 
> Weylin O'Donnell = Weylin as a name apparently means "son of the wolf" (it also apparently means "wayside land" but we'll just ignore that). I had wanted to give him two names that were essentially wolf related but it felt like it was verging too much on "Moon Moon" territory, so instead I went with O'Donnell ... which is the last name of Wolf from the Star Fox series. Aww yeah ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ Alastair's reaction comes more from the ridiculous and unwieldy nature of the name, but it's fun to think he knows the rebels were having a go at his Lycan nature too. :]


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna say real fast: it's gonna be real difficult focusing on writing with Kingdom Hearts 3 having just come out. D: Also this is probably the longest chapter I've posted thus far, so ... enjoy??
> 
> Chapter first posted 29 January 2019.

It’s been some time since his last trip by sea, though exactly how long he can’t quite say. With so many drastic upheavals in his life of late Grayson’s not sure it matters, even if he could remember. One detail that hasn’t left his memory is the length of time journeys such as these tend to take. Those wealthy enough to have experienced travel by airship are truly spoiled, not only with the depth of luxury afforded them but the speed of the trip as well. He tries to imagine them, the privileged class of London, returning to this: smaller rooms, space shared with those less fortunate, and a voyage that takes twice the time.

Not that travel aboard the _Etruria_ is especially trying. Their cabin, he discovers, is one designated for second-class passengers, and thus the second-best lodgings possible on this vessel; not for the first time does he find himself wondering how Lakshmi managed to secure tickets that, even for most people, would be quite the expense. She’s a resourceful woman, that much has never been in doubt. At least the conundrum provides him some distraction. It’s a better one than what’s already on offer.

Their cabin leans more towards function than fashion, which suits him fine; that they have a bed each, and no one else to share the space with, is more than he could have hoped for. There’s little worth mentioning beyond that: the walls are white, what might generously be called a washbasin sits to the rear between the two beds, and there isn’t much room at all. There are communal bathrooms for passengers of their class, as well as a dining parlour, and while there are fewer armed guards on board than he expected the friendly crew of the _Etruria_ are all too willing to let them know exactly when they’re straying into territory not meant for them.

Despite this, the people they encounter are mostly friendly – and it is _they_ , not _he_ or _Alastair_ alone, because the fact that they’re confined to a ship doesn’t mean he’s forgotten all that’s passed between them. They become each other’s shadows without any conscious acknowledgement of the fact, one following the other in silence on the occasion they need to leave the cabin. If any of their fellow passengers notice the behaviour, they’re courteous enough not to question it.

Grayson learns that very first day most of them are simply too distracted by the minutiae of their own lives to look to anything else.

“Don’t you just think it’s romantic? The New Year in the New World!”

They’re sitting in the dining parlour early that first evening, waiting to order a meal, when the pair walk by. The man is tall, and the woman nearly half his size, and they fall easily into one of the three categories he’s already divided these other travellers into – family units, romantic couples, and obvious singletons. He and Alastair are the odd ones out, he’d noted with some amusement, though perhaps all the true businessmen are sequestered on the upper deck.

Regardless, it’s not the couple that catches his attention, but the words of the woman, clinging to her man’s arm and gazing up at him, enraptured.

It’s New Year’s Eve.

“Did you not know?”

Grayson’s eyes snap to Alastair, only realising he’d spoken aloud from the other man’s response. Alastair, meanwhile, is occupying himself with the menu; he looks up, briefly, then turns back to the page. He’ll never admit it, and certainly not to Alastair, but in his focus on getting them aboard – safely, legitimately, _with_ provisions and _without_ being caught – he’d all but forgotten the date of their departure. He’s certain he would have seen it – it’s impossible to miss, printed front and centre of the ticket – but if not for the comment of that woman he thinks he might’ve failed to realise the significance until much later.

Alastair still hasn’t said any more. Already feeling off-kilter, Grayson doesn’t look away. A thought comes to him then, a phrase he’d heard from the rebels who in turn learned it from the occupants of the court dwellings; it seems particularly apt in this moment. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You enjoy these sorts of civilian celebrations, don’t you, Arthur?”

Grayson raises an eyebrow at that but says nothing. It doesn’t take long for Alastair to sigh, place the menu back on the table, and look at him properly. He doesn’t miss the way Alastair shifts where he sits, leaning back, one arm thrown along the top of the booth seat.

“Well? I seem to recall you attending a few of them with my sister.”

It’s a bit like stepping into the ocean, he thinks, knowing that all manner of hungry creatures are waiting just below the surface – only there’s also one of them staring right at him, just its eyes visible above the waterline – and yet he finds he can’t stop himself from wading further in. Insatiable curiosity is one of the things that led him into this mess; this deep in, there’s only so much more damage encouraging it can do.

Slowly, he says, “Isi was fonder of them than I was.” He pauses a moment, shrugs. “I suppose they had their charm.”

“I’m sure those were the charms you were truly paying mind.” Alastair’s eyes are narrowed; he finally turns away. “I never saw the appeal, personally.”

“Too much humanity for your blood?”

Grayson’s curled one hand into a fist. It rests against his thigh where the other reaches for the menu, and that’s where he looks instead. He doesn’t need to see if he’s gotten a rise out of Alastair. He really doesn’t care.

They order their meals, eat, and return to their cabin in silence. Through the walls he eventually hears cheering, and the muted tune of what can only be _Auld Lang Syne_ , and all he can do to welcome the new year in is turn to face the wall and try not to imagine Isabeau, and the few celebrations they’d shared.

He doesn’t dream of her that night. He doesn’t know if he’s upset by that or not.

It doesn’t take long for him to realise the major flaw that comes with making himself warden of a man he’s currently in a tenuous state with – beyond the obvious, of course. Instead, the larger issue that emerges is one he would never have expected.

Boredom.

With the extent of their available territory consisting entirely of their cabin, the dining parlour, and the few communal bathrooms, they’re quick to run out of places to roam. The parlour allows them to observe their fellow passengers but there’s only so much of that they can get away with before they start raising eyebrows, and the last thing they need is to draw unwanted attention. Any regular traveller would have brought their own entertainment; true businessmen would have their work with them to help pass the time. All he and Alastair have are each other, and with every possible thread of conversation between them already exhausted every hour that passes feels like a day.

Whatever distraction comes his way, he’ll take it, without question.

Time drags on.

There are portholes on this level of the ship. Their cabin isn’t one of those with access to one; the dining parlour is best for that, and it’s where he and Alastair find themselves this particular evening. The dinner service is long over but the crew has been content with them using the room to socialise for a few hours afterward, until they eventually herd them out. As with everything the occupants vary night to night, as do the number of those present. Tonight, Grayson can count them on one hand, so while Alastair settles in at the – unattended – bar, he feels free to make several slow circuits of the room.

He counts the portholes on either side as he walks, nothing but the spray of the sea visible in the darkness, and it’s as he’s doing this that he notices the man sitting in the corner. There’s little about him that’s worth noting – if he wasn’t already looking that way and the man not illuminated by the sconce Grayson might have missed him entirely – and it’s as he’s making this observation that the man looks up and meets his gaze.

“Is this your first voyage?”

Not expecting the question Grayson doesn’t answer right away. Before he can open his mouth, the man raises a hand.

“Forgive my intrusion. With your pacing I thought perhaps …”

“I apologise if I disturbed you,” Grayson says when he trails off. “Restlessness keeps me moving, not nerves.”

“Well, if it would calm your restlessness, then please,” and he gestures to the open seat across from him, “feel free.”

Grayson tries to keep his surprise from showing. For all that he’s a stranger the man seems harmless enough. It’s one of those scenarios where whichever decision he makes has the potential to be the wrong one, but there’s only so much time he can stand around considering the repercussions before that, too, becomes suspicious. It’s instinct that finally leads him forward, and he slides into the seat opposite.

“That’s generous of you.”

The man shrugs. “Wasn’t seeing much use as it was.”

“Nevertheless.”

This close he gets a better look at him. Uncharitable as it might be Grayson’s opinion hasn’t changed any with proximity; the man wears a beard and is of a fair complexion, and his clothes suggest he isn’t struggling in life. Yet he doesn’t hold himself with any of the arrogance that men of higher stations do, and there’s been nothing in the way he’s looked at those around him, Grayson included, that hints he thinks himself better. Now he sits, thoughtfully putting words to page, and the intense concentration on his face reminds Grayson so strongly and suddenly of Nikola that it almost sends him reeling.

He grasps for the first thing to get himself back on equal footing, one of many observations shining at the forefront of his mind.

“Forgive me,” he says, and the man looks up. “I couldn’t but notice – your accent?”

“I’d be surprised if it went _un_ noticed.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ireland by birth, more recently of London. And you?”

“London also. Though whether it remains that way is still to be determined.”

More must show on his face than he intends, for the man sets down his pen, clasps his hands above the page, and looks, quite intently, at him.

“Trying your luck in the United States?”

Grayson can’t help his rueful smile. “Something like that.”

“What business are you in?”

“Imports.”

“Exports,” comes Alastair’s drawl. It draws both their attention, and Grayson finds him looking rather comfortable, all things considered, slumped forward against the bar, arms folded against its top and his chin perched on his arms.

“Excuse my companion,” Grayson says, loud enough to carry over, “he’s only a little less restless than me.”

The man dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand. “I’m in theatre, myself. The man I work with is already there, in New York City; let me tell you, restless as you are, you’re lucky to be travelling with someone.”

Grayson can only dip his head in a solemn nod and hope nothing else shows on his face.

“I understand, though. What reluctance you might have to return to London.” The man’s expression goes distant, gaze falling to the page he’d been working on. He taps his fingers against it, and Grayson watches, doesn’t break the moment. “My wife and son remain there, despite my wish for them to join me.”

“Is that who you write to?” Grayson can’t help but ask, knowing that he risks overstepping the bounds of propriety but unable to stop himself.

The man looks up at that, but the surprise on his face fades quickly. “This? No, this is for family of a different sort. A distant relation; he’s a police commissioner in London. With all he’s seen as of late I try to keep in touch more often.”

The mention of police sends a bolt of ice through Grayson’s blood. He tries to keep it from showing, nodding instead in polite interest and not at all bothered when the man turns his attention back to his letter. A few moments pass in relatively comfortable silence before Grayson even realises he’s forgotten something.

“Forgive me; I never formally introduced myself.” He holds out his hand. “Arthur Slate.”

The man’s eyebrows tick up at that, but he takes Grayson’s hand and says, “Abraham Stoker.”

“Hm. Same initials. What a coincidence.”

“Indeed.”

He’s content to simply continue sitting there, and for a little while they do; when the quiet breaks this time it’s by Abraham’s hand.

“Might I ask you something, Arthur?” He waits, seemingly oblivious to Grayson’s soundless panic, and only when Grayson nods does he continue. “Have you seen them? The horrors that fill London’s streets?”

From the corner of his eye Grayson catches Alastair shift slightly in their direction.

“I’ve only heard the stories.”

Abraham shakes his head. “The stories do not do them justice. Nor do they go into detail on those that hunt them.”

Grayson’s all but certain the stillness he forces himself to keep will be the thing that gives him away, but he can do nothing else. Even a glance in Alastair’s direction feels as though it would be too much. So he sits, and says nothing, and hopes whatever’s on his face can pass as acceptable in polite society.

Only Abraham isn’t even looking at him. His attention is somewhere far away, almost lost, and it carries in his voice when he says, “With such terror already prevalent how can anything else compare?”

“… I’m not sure I follow.”

“Don’t misunderstand; I don’t mean to make light of the situation. I know people have suffered.” Abraham holds up his hands, intent. “But those of us who put on shows, or tell stories for a living – how can that compete with true, _living_ monsters?”

Abraham is watching him as though he expects an actual answer, and Grayson flounders. Of all the ways he imagined this conversation would go – of all the conversations he’s ever _had_ on the topic – the impact of Half-Breeds on the creative community is easily the strangest, and most surprising. This time he can’t stop himself from looking in Alastair’s direction, if for no other reason than to make sure he isn’t the only one hearing this; he’s glad he did. Despite still being hunched over there’s no doubt he’s paying attention to the conversation, as he’s staring at Abraham with such open bafflement that Grayson almost laughs. Only at the last moment does Alastair realise he’s being watched, and he settles that confused look on Grayson, and gives the tiniest shake of his head.

It’s odd, the sense of familiarity that fills him then; the warmth of an old fire, embers clinging to life, and despite everything some part of him still wants to reach for it. He buries that realisation in the space of a heartbeat, blames their continued proximity for the way his mind falls back into old habits and reminiscence. It won’t go any further – he knows better, won’t allow it to.

He looks away before they can be discovered, but Abraham still expects an answer, it seems. Grayson takes a deep breath and tries to put his thoughts together.

“People have endured terrible things from the very beginning; that hasn’t stopped anyone from telling stories. Most of the public are searching for a distraction, whatever the form.” He pauses, frowning, but Abraham doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush him, and for that he’s thankful. “There’ll always be someone for whom your monster will be an unknown quantity, and for everyone else … perhaps the way you tell the story will be enough.”

Abraham nods to himself, making a low, considering noise. His eyes have taken on that faraway look again, and he stares at a place somewhere off to the side of Grayson for so long that he’s almost convinced he’s been forgotten. He’s on the verge of getting to his feet, in fact, when Abraham finally comes back to himself.

“It’s worth considering, at least. Thank you for indulging me, Arthur.”

“Thank you for asking.”

It isn’t long after that he excuses himself and Alastair, and they return to their room. Alastair lags behind, and Grayson can feel the weight of his gaze on his back with every step. Something’s coming. There’s no way it isn’t.

It’s not until they’re in the cabin that he’s proven right, as Alastair shuts the door then leans back against it, arms folded over his chest.

“What a thoughtful answer. I hadn’t realised yours was such an artistic soul.”

“Forgive me; I should have had him ask you. You’re the true expert in the field, aren’t you?”

With his back to Alastair he only hears his reaction, an exhalation that he takes to be a scoff but might just as easily be a huff of laughter. Their exchanges as of late have all been some variation of this, he realises, and it’s not – _amusement_ , that he feels at the thought, not quite. What it _is_ is all too close to the feeling he buried not so long ago, and this ends up in the same pit just as quickly.

They say no more to each other that night.

Time passes, for all that it seems to drag its feet. Soon enough they’re closer to New York than they are Liverpool, and despite it being obvious and logical part of his mind still boggles at the fact. Perhaps it’s because he can’t see the progress they’re making that has it all feeling so nebulous; that every day is virtually identical to the last doesn’t help, either. Much as it feels like they’re caught in some strange limbo, he knows: they’re only moving further from everyone he trusts, and closer towards the unknown.

The New Year in the New World.

He blames all this for the way his thoughts refuse to quiet more and more with every passing night. It’s not enough that the idea of Alastair attempting something while he sleeps is one more thing to preoccupy him; no, when he finally manages to dip into slumber every errant wave or creaking of the ship jolts him awake, and the process circles ‘round again. If nothing else he’s grateful neither of them suffer from seasickness. To have to deal with both that and lack of rest would be almost unbearable.

Strange, that he’s come to miss the close spaces and sleeping sounds of rebel hideouts. Maybe one day he’ll find his way back to something resembling normalcy. Assuming he survives whatever comes next.

He isn’t sure what wakes him this particular night, isn’t entirely sure he _is_ awake for some time, and so he just lies still, allows his mind to drift. There’s no light to illuminate the room, the fixture on the wall having been shut off hours ago, so when he sees the thin beam cast against the opposite wall he’s surging upright without a second thought.

The cabin door is open.

Alastair’s bed is empty.

“Fuck,” he growls, untangling himself from the sheets. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, rough with both sleep and emotion. He refuses to panic – he’s better than that, he knows he is – but he can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he pulls on his coat and tries to make himself presentable.

Outside, the hall is quiet, just as it should be. The lights set into the wall cast just enough of a glow for him to see by, and what he sees is very little; all of the cabin doors are shut. As quietly as he can he hurries down one end, pausing outside the door of the closest communal bathroom, but no sound reaches his ears. There are others he could check on this level, though he quickly decides against that. Hiding away in a bathroom isn’t quite Alastair’s style.

His mind is racing as he heads back the way he came, thoughts rising to the surface unbidden. This could all be some hilarious misunderstanding, and Alastair’s only stepped out for the moment, restless as Grayson himself and in need of stretching his legs. Perhaps he’s even done it before this evening, and it is only coincidence that’s seen him wake for this instance. Their room is still empty as he passes it, though, and the naivety of the thought does neither of them justice.

The doors to the dining parlour refuse to budge. Grayson grits his teeth, casts about for some other option –

His gaze lands on a staircase only a short distance away. This one leads to the deck above, where the first-class passengers reside. Its counterpart, back behind him somewhere, is far less conspicuous, closer to a stairwell than anything else; that one leads down, into the guts of the ship. Those men he’d seen hawking tickets as they’d boarded – anyone purchasing from them would spend their journey down there, in the cramped confines known as steerage.

He lays his hand on the bannister and heads up. That Alastair would journey deeper into the ship isn’t even a consideration.

The crewmates that had once been so insistent on keeping them away from this part of the ship are now strangely absent. The fact doesn’t make him any less cautious: rather he feels more aware than ever of each step he takes, with every heartbeat waiting for the moment he catches sight of one. This floor doesn’t flaunt its riches the way he’d expected, but there’s a fineness to the materials he can’t help but notice; the wood panelling covering the walls, the plushness of the rugs on the floor. Even the light fittings seem to have some amount of gilding along their fixtures. No wonder they’d been kept so readily from straying up here.

A burst of laughter catches his attention. It’s dulled by both walls and distance, but the sound seems to be coming from somewhere down one of the nearby halls. Curiosity has its hooks in him: Alastair’s not down that way, he’s all but certain of that, but he creeps towards it anyway, edging along the wall until he comes to the corner.

He peers around and almost immediately jolts back. There’s a chair set against the wall about halfway down the hall, and one of the crewmates is occupying it. He’s about to move on when he notices the way the man’s head is tipped nearly to his chest, rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his breathing. Asleep on the job, then? If he’s any luck left the man will sleep on for as long as he’s on this floor.

Enough light cuts across the rug beside the sleeping figure to suggest an open door; there’s no noise now but he’s willing to bet that’s where the laughter came from. More crewmates or some rowdy passengers, it doesn’t matter. He’s satisfied with what he knows. Best not to linger.

The layout of this floor is just different enough to leave him feeling wrongfooted. The cabins are noticeably larger, closer to the centre of the level than the one below; the communal bathrooms are gone, and the resulting extra space has allowed the creation of another, more fanciful area: the placard calls it the _Etruria Ballroom_. There’s still another level above him – the ship’s deck, open and exposed – and this floor’s dining parlour, back the way he came, that he could check, but one of the doors before him is ajar and he decides to take the chance.

It’s darker inside, so much so that he can barely make out the details of the room. There’s a bank of windows to the left, though – actual, proper windows – and the light streaming through them immediately draws his eye there, and to the man standing in its glow.

Alastair seems strangely pale in the evening’s light, his already fair complexion becoming even more washed out. He hasn’t moved since Grayson made his entrance, though he’s certain the man is aware of his presence. A more poetic, charitable soul might see something in him then: statuesque, like a moment out of time.

Grayson is neither poetic nor charitable.

“Tell me,” he growls, stalking forward, “there’s some explanation for this _lunacy_.”

Alastair doesn’t even look at him. “What are you doing here, Grayson?”

“What am _I_ …? Now I know you’ve lost all sense.”

Within arm’s reach and he can see out the window too now, the dark waves reaching on forever, and off in the distance, hanging like a beacon, is the moon. It casts more light than he would have expected, so far out and not quite full, and Alastair is staring at it almost compulsively. His arms hang at his sides, and everything about him is oddly listless; a puppet, strings still attached but no one to move them.

“Perhaps you’ve failed to notice but we’re surrounded by ocean. If you’re concerned I might escape, I assure you I won’t get far.” Alastair finally turns his way, and his face is cold and remote. “Go back to the cabin.”

“You think this is where things stand between us? That you can make such demands?”

Alastair shakes his head and looks away, but the expression on his face says enough. Where before the stillness of his frame had spoken of his depth of thought now Grayson can see the tension radiating under his skin, pulling across his shoulders. He’s a tightly wound spring, a trap waiting to snap shut and Grayson’s all too ready to see it happen. Everything inside him, every spark of fear and confusion and _anger_ that’s hummed beneath his skin since waking to an empty room – all of it is burning through his veins, blinding him to everything but the urge to act.

“You must take me for a fool. Did you honestly imagine I’d leave you to your own devices? As though it matters we’re not on land.” Grayson feels his face twist. “I know _exactly_ what you’re capable of –”

“You have _no idea_ ,” Alastair snarls, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and twisting his fist. Grayson brings his own hand up in response, latching onto Alastair’s arm with an iron grip, and it’s at that moment he wishes his blade wasn’t buried at the bottom of his luggage.

Standing there, breathing heavily at one another, Grayson’s more than close enough to see Alastair’s eyes flick towards the doorway.

“Someone’s coming.”

The hand vanishes as quickly as it’d grabbed him.

Grayson blinks. “What –”

But Alastair has turned back towards the window, nearly the picture of the figure he cut before this encounter of theirs. There’s maybe a handful of seconds between Alastair’s warning and the sound of the door swinging open; if the expression he levels on the crewmate peering in looks anything like utter bewilderment that’s because it is.

“Sirs? This area is off limits after hours.”

He’s still holding Alastair’s arm, he realises belatedly.

“Yes, of course, please excuse us,” Grayson-as-Arthur says, “my companion …”

Alastair hasn’t moved. It’s somewhat unsettling how barely he seems to blink.

Whatever Grayson had been intending to say dies in his throat and he hears the man step closer. His lantern sweeps over them both.

“I don’t recognise either one of you.”

“We’re from the deck below. It’s rather a strange story, really –”

He tugs on Alastair’s arm as subtly as he can but still he refuses to move, shows no sign in fact that he even registers the grip, and Grayson’s on the verge of yanking the damn limb clean out of its socket. He risks a glance back to find the crewmate almost upon them; where first his face was as confused as Grayson’s own, it’s clearly now moved more towards caution. The hand not holding the lantern is edging towards the holster at his hip.

Really, Grayson finds himself thinking despite the whirlwind of his mind, what sort of low-rent operation jumps immediately to threatening their guests with an armed response?

As though the two of them could possess some sort of danger to others.

The man takes another step.

“… My friend, you see, he suffers from somnambulism.”

It’s the first thing that tumbles out of his mouth but it seems to have the desired effect: the crewmate stops, frowning.

“Somnawhat?”

“Somnambulism. … He sleepwalks.”

“But his eyes are open.”

The crewmate peers closer, holding up his lantern to show that Alastair’s eyes are, indeed, open. Under his hand Alastair has relaxed some; without the possibility of confirmation he can’t be entirely sure, but Grayson hopes it means he’s decided to play along.

“Quite distressing, isn’t it? You’d not believe the number of times he’s wandered off in the middle of the night. Terrified those of us who saw him.” Grayson moves slowly, deliberately, shifting his hand from Alastair’s arm to his back. “Then he remembers absolutely none of it when he finally wakes up!”

The crewmate has lowered his lantern and moved instead onto waving his hand in front of Alastair’s face; when that gets no reaction, he tries snapping his fingers a few times. To his credit Alastair keeps up the act, staring through the man as though he doesn’t even exist. It’s a skill Grayson thinks the former Knight Commander is rather proficient in.

Before the crewmate’s curiosity can get in the way of them Grayson clears his throat. “Best I get him back to the cabin. It can be quite a shock, waking somewhere other than where you went to sleep.”

“… Right.”

Grayson’s moving even before the man speaks, ‘guiding’ Alastair forward. The very lie they used to save themselves keeps them from making a swifter exit; he has to fight to keep himself from moving faster, or outright pushing Alastair along. Against all odds they’ve made it this far, but the crewmate is trailing only a few steps behind. He can’t afford to let things fall apart now.

“Just try to keep him away from anywhere restricted, yeah?”

Grayson nods at him over his shoulder. “Yes, of course, thank you!”

Then they’re out the door. Judging by the noises behind them the man is focused on locking up and so they’re free to make for the stairs. It seems their investigator came alone – the halls are empty, the sleeping stranger from earlier still in his chair – but they keep the ruse alive until they’re safely on the deck below.

The muscles under his palm shift and Grayson looks to see Alastair standing taller, more purposeful, his eyes no longer glazed over but instead caught in a frown. Grayson drops his hand back to his side.

Alastair is first through the door, and Grayson’s barely set about closing it behind himself when the light against the wall comes to life. Alastair stands beside it.

Good. He wants to see his face.

“Somnambulism, hm? Clever. Learned that one from Nikola, did you?”

“We’re not doing this.”

Alastair looks at him, still frowning. Grayson clenches his fists.

“You don’t get to crack a joke and pretend like the status quo is still intact. Not after the stunt you just pulled.”

“What do you expect of me, then?”

“ _You_ _know_. Tell the truth. What were you doing up there?”

Alastair slowly lowers himself to his bed, sets his back against the wall and links his hands in his lap. “I was neither planning your murder, my escape, or my retribution against those who’ve wronged me. That’s what you want to hear, is it not?”

“I _told_ you –”

“You want the truth, yes, I know. There you have it.” Alastair sits forward suddenly. “Why do you _care_?”

Grayson’s mouth almost drops open, the question catches him so off-guard. He has more control over himself than that, thankfully, even if he’s sure the confusion still shows on his face. “What do you mean, why do I care?”

“We’ve had this conversation once before, or do you not remember? You don’t trust anything I say. Why would things be any different now?”

Now he’s certain his confusion is showing. This time however it’s directed as much towards himself as it is Alastair, for how does he begin to answer that? He isn’t wrong; Grayson remembers making that very declaration, still stands by it as the truth. He also knows that he can’t admit anything to Alastair without proving him absolutely right. How can he demand the truth in one breath and call the man a liar in the next?

Grayson grits his teeth.

“I trusted you enough to allow you this far.”

Alastair shakes his head at that, and for the first time since this conversation began his expression shifts; he looks _annoyed_. He turns his gaze towards the floor and for a few long moments says nothing, pressing his fingers against his temple so hard Grayson’s sure there’ll be imprints left. Then he speaks, slowly, “I’ve had more than enough time to think this through. There are only so many ways this can go once we reach New York. I know my part in this. Do you?”

For all that he’s towering over Alastair Grayson’s never felt so keenly as though their positions were reversed. From the moment he began his questioning things have felt strangely out of step; his own insistence towards seriousness has robbed their interactions of their usual tone, and while Alastair’s irreverence normally drives him mad he finds himself oddly bereft of it now. The lack of insults and jabs in his direction lends every word out of Alastair’s mouth a gravity he’s unable to ignore, and he’s not sure that he likes this change.

Alastair’s feet are bare, he realises abruptly, and have been the entire time. It’s strange, how the image sticks with him, how out of place it is, how close to something vulnerable it makes him.

Grayson frowns. His own thoughts are getting away from him.

“I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

“Take it however you want. Forgive me if I refuse to play the good little prisoner for one night.”

And then Alastair drops onto his back, turns to face the wall, and says no more. Grayson can only stand there, utterly bewildered; he opens his mouth intending on spitting the harshest words he can muster, but all that makes it out is a frustrated breath. His hands are shaking, confusion already morphing into something violent, and for a moment he sees himself as though from outside his own body, sees himself grabbing Alastair by the shoulders and dragging him from the bed, throwing him to the floor, arm pulled back to deliver the first punch –

Grayson stomps over to the light and shuts it off.

Everything else he wishes to say is best lost to the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I used a mishmash of details from more well known (but of later period) ships as well as plans like [this](http://www.norwayheritage.com/gallery/gallery/Steamship_Companies/Cunard_Line/01umbria-etruria-plan-cun.jpg) to envisage the _Etruria_.
> 
> \- An [example](http://mstecker.com/images/steckerold/EtruriaMenu-0003photo.jpg) of a menu from one of the _Etruria's_ sailings. [This page](http://mstecker.com/pages/SteckStecher_Marcus-Etruria.htm) has a lot of great pictures of the ship, including one of it [docked at Liverpool](http://mstecker.com/images/steckerold/Etruria-2548_700-bb.jpg) that I really should've included in the last chapter's notes lolwhoops
> 
> \- Abraham "Bram" Stoker, author of Dracula, did in fact [travel](https://www.gjenvick.com/Passengers/Cunard/Etruria-PassengerList-1886-10-23.html) aboard the _Etruria_! Though IRL he departed a little earlier. And I promise, the whole inclusion of Stoker isn't supposed to be some wanky meta commentary on writing or whatever - I genuinely sat around for a long time thinking about how the existence of these creatures in this world would impact the creation of what (for us) are some of the most influential works of fiction, both for the genre and in general. All the pieces fell into place in such a way I couldn't _not_ use him, and I thought it an interesting point to consider. Plus the game already went there first, using real world figures (like Jack the Ripper and Arthur Conan Doyle) albeit in different forms - it was fun to get to do the same.
> 
> \- Speaking of Doyle, he and Stoker were apparently [distantly related](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bram_Stoker#Lyceum_Theatre)? And while the student in me remembers not to solely trust Wikipedia, I thought it was too great a detail to pass up. So the police commissioner Stoker's writing a letter to is absolutely meant to be him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's okay guys, i finished kingdom hearts 3, writing can continue
> 
> I'm so unused to this weekly update thing it's weirding me out
> 
> Chapter first posted 5 February 2019.

There’s a palpable sense of excitement that fills the ship the closer they get to their destination, and Grayson wakes in the morning a day after his and Alastair's strange night time encounter to find it’s reached a fever pitch. They’ve made good time, it seems, and are now mere hours from port. Alastair shows little reaction at the news, keeping his own counsel much as he has since that evening. Grayson’s all too willing to leave him to it, still feeling an unpleasant prick of anger beneath his skin every time he looks at him.

As for himself, Grayson sets about ensuring all their things are packed away first and foremost, everything that might draw suspicion safely hidden. It’s not a distraction that lasts long, but he takes it all the same.

Their cabin door is ajar. Alastair stands with his back against the frame, arms folded across his chest, staring out into the corridor. Only a small gap remains, his body blocking the rest. Grayson’s concerns about being seen vanish quickly; despite the noise outside their fellow travellers are far more preoccupied with their own dilemmas, and those that pass are less than keen to peer around the imposing man blocking their view.

“Will you come along this time?”

Grayson lets the silence stretch, still focused on his task. “Come where?”

“The upper deck, to view the landing,” Alastair says, glancing over at him and cocking his head towards the hall. “By the sound of it they’re allowing passengers up there.”

He pauses, considering.

“I’ve heard New York City is a sight to behold.”

Alastair's voice is a promise, though of what he's not sure. There’s little more to do here, and their only other real option is to stay in the cabin until the time comes to disembark. When he thinks about it like that …

“Very well, then.”

Alastair doesn’t push off the frame until Grayson’s all but reached the door, and then he falls in line behind him. The halls are as busy as they were that first day, though their path remains relatively clear; they garner a few curious looks from the fine folk the next deck up, but he pays them no mind. Grayson’s far more concerned with the crewmates wandering the floor, and avoiding the gaze of the one in particular looking his way.

At the top of the stairs he pushes open a heavy door and then they’re out, breathing fresh air for the first time in nearly a week. It’s also absolutely freezing, an icy wind that sticks in his chest and draws his breath short, whips at his hair and his clothes, and in seconds he’s huddling in on himself, arms tight around his chest and hands buried in his pits. Here, at least, Alastair is no more immune than he is, his hands stuck deep into his pockets and his shoulders up around his ears. The other souls also braving the elements – as well as the crewmate standing by the door, supervising – glance their way, losing interest just as quickly. Grayson shuffles through the gale to a spot far enough away from everyone else and stops.

The water stretches out as far as he can see, a perfect mirror of the clouds above, roiling and grey.

“Tell me why I agreed to this,” he grumbles.

“I’ve no idea. You have a strange proclivity for thinking the things I say wise.”

Grayson shakes his head at that.

The smell of smoke briefly interrupts the clear, crisp scent of winter morning, carried on the breeze and gone just as fast. A man further along the deck has a pipe between his lips, and Grayson watches him a moment before glancing towards the rest. These are the businessmen he’d had in mind days ago, and they fit the bill perfectly. What is it that’s brought them out here, he finds himself wondering, and what secrets do they hold? Most of the dozen or so people out here are in the company of another, exchanging quiet words; as he watches, a mother and father retreat indoors, their small child wedged securely between them.

“Will you tell me now that we’re so close?”

From the corner of his eye he sees Alastair look his way. Grayson doesn’t turn to face him, stays where he is, leaning with his arms against the railing, staring out at the water. He means Hastings, of course, but expounding on the events of the ballroom wouldn’t go amiss, either, so he doesn’t clarify. The observation lasts a few long moments, and then it’s over, and Alastair turns his gaze elsewhere.

“You’ll have to live in suspense a little longer, I’m afraid.”

He doesn’t bother hiding the sigh that answer draws out of him.

The city has since come into view, buildings standing out along the shore. Alastair’s refusal to cooperate has left him feeling tense and unhappy, however; if they’re not going to take advantage of the solitude to discuss what needs to be discussed he may as well return inside. No sense in freezing for nothing.

He straightens up, intent on heading back, when Alastair makes a considering noise behind him.

“That certainly wasn’t there last time.”

Grayson turns, frowning, and spots immediately the object of Alastair’s attention.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen a statue so large. It draws the eye effortlessly, cutting through the skyline, and even in the weak sun of a winter morning it catches the light, glinting a warm copper. The sound of murmurs and shuffling feet alert him to the approach of the others, also now aware of the spectacle and equally awed; the group moves past them in search of a better view but Grayson’s happy where he is.

“Constructed by the French, if I recall correctly. As though that comes as a surprise.” Alastair scoffs. “It’s a wonder your dear Marquis didn’t linger. They’re still fond of his kind here.”

Grayson’s only half listening. His mind is caught on words said earlier.

“Last time,” he murmurs to himself. Then, a little louder, “Of course you’ve been here before.”

He finally turns his eyes away from the magnificent structure, looks to Alastair only to find himself already being watched.

“Is there a problem, _Arthur_?”

“You refuse to tell me what I want to know. You’ve already seen the city yourself. Why bother coming out here?”

“All I ever said was New York was worth seeing. Nothing about that was a lie.”

“No, just a convenient omission of truth.”

He takes one last look at the statue before it passes out of his line of sight, committing as much of it to memory as he can. It’s truly a marvel of creation, a sight he’ll not soon forget, but he’s not about to trail along the edge of the ship to keep it in view. Leave that to the tourists.

As they move further into the waters surrounding the city they’re rewarded with the image of a great bridge, grey and imposing, cables reaching like thin fingers across the span. This, too, is quite a scene, and though he’d never let the words leave his mouth he must admit: Alastair wasn’t entirely wrong. New York City truly is a sight to behold.

What will happen to this place? He finds himself wondering as he takes in the view before him. Will these monuments stand the test of time? Will they still be looked upon with awe? And what of the city itself – how will the undeniable march of progress change the landscape he now looks upon? It’s strange, to think that he could live long enough to return here one day and find the place completely unrecognisable. London is a different story, a sapling he’s watched grow into an enormous tree, and even if some of the limbs have been pared back or removed entirely he still remembers where they first reached.

This place is already foreign to him and will only become more so.

Perhaps this is how Sebastien felt, that day in Whitechapel. It feels so long ago now. Rarely did his mentor so openly reminisce, and with the tone he’d had then; Grayson had viewed such ponderings with the inevitability their lives demanded and little else. Now he thinks he understands the melancholy nature Sebastien’s words had held then.

There’s a quiet little voice in the back of his mind that reminds him he might not get the chance to return, that he might not survive to see the end of the month let alone the years to come. He does his best to ignore it.

“How well do you know the city, then?”

He might as well ask. What’s the worst that could happen? That Alastair continues to deny him an answer?

The man in question is silent, staring out at the distant buildings, a look of deep thought on his face. Grayson waits.

“I wasn’t yet Knight Commander the first time I came here. My more recent visit was only a few years ago.” Alastair trails off, a frown creeping across his features. “I know enough.”

It all comes so easily to him then, the insinuations, the threats and allegations he could throw in Alastair’s face. He can’t pretend they aren’t in his mind or act as though he doesn’t wish to speak them. Something stays his tongue, though, some impulse he can’t explain. If nothing else it’s a small relief to step back from the anger he feels still waiting in the wings.

It’s not long after that the crewmate calls them all to attention and begins herding them back below deck for the process of disembarking. Inside, every visible porthole is surrounded, excitable children with their fingers pressed against the glass, young women peering out eagerly with their male companions looking on; he imagines the scene must be the same in the ballroom, with its grand windows all but meant for such an occasion. The absolute lack of cynicism he sees in the display is nowhere near what he expected, and it catches him by surprise. Before he can reflect on the pleasant feeling it instils in him one of the nearby crewmates _quietly_ , _politely_ , asks them to return to their intended floor, and Grayson gives him a tight-lipped smile, and a nod, and heads downstairs.

“They have their formalities, Arthur,” Alastair coyly states. Grayson can hear the undertone of amusement in his voice.

What does it matter. He still needs to collect their luggage anyway.

It’s a far cry from the last disembarking he witnessed, he finds himself thinking, somewhat morbidly. Noticeably less fire and smoke for one thing. They stand, backs to the most remote wall left to them on seemingly the entire floor, out of the path of chaos but still close enough to observe it. Watching Alastair eye the surrounding passengers, he can’t help but be curious as to what’s in his mind. If the frown on his face is any indication it’s likely nothing charitable.

“At least we won’t be waiting as long as those below,” he says.

Alastair hums. “I’d wager many of them are emigrating. They’ll be down there a while yet.”

The noise of their fellow travellers does its best but it can’t drown out the sounds of motion above them. It takes a moment, but when they finally notice an excited buzz quickly springs up from the passengers nearby, and it only grows with the appearance of one of the crewmates at the top of the stairs. Grayson’s in no hurry to contend with sharp elbows and squashed toes and so he waits, allows the river of people to sweep past until it reaches a more sedate pace. Then he nods to Alastair.

Some part of him, still clinging to life despite the passing of the years, wants to commit all this to memory: every detail, be it fine or common, that helps make this ship what it is. It’s a remnant from his earliest days as a knight, before the shine of immortality wore away, not only illogical, but physiologically impossible; his memory has already failed him before today, and he’s sure that will only continue. Still, the habit lingers. Sebastien wasn’t the only knight to reminisce on occasion: their stories, as fraught with danger as with wonder, had been as kindling to the fire of his young mind’s imagination. So he’d held onto his own, memories of places and people and all the detail he could muster, and then it became _his_ turn to tell them to Isabeau, and Lafayette.

Yet another way the ouroboros devours itself.

If he had a choice in the matter he knows what it is he’d keep. What is a monument or the inside of a ship compared to the image of Lakshmi’s face or the touch of Isi’s hand on his cheek, the memory of the time he and Nikola shared or the last words he heard Sebastien say? Even the ones that hurt … he wouldn’t give any of them up willingly.

But he supposes that’s the point, isn’t it – he has no say in any of it. He’ll lose what he’ll lose. If that’s the case, why _not_ treat it all as precious? The moment he’s convinced the mundane regularities of life aren’t worth his time or remembrance he might as well give up; he’d be no better than –

Than what? The monsters he once fought? Monsters like Alastair, bleeding out on the floor of Nikola’s lab, speaking of all the things he’d seen and not forgotten?

What else is still in his mind?

The crewmates wish them all a pleasant time in the city as they file past – he thinks he even recognises the man who first welcomed them aboard somewhere in there – but then he’s stepping out onto the gangway, and the cold is eagerly making itself known again, the wind all but pushing him towards the ground.

This is it.

Grayson looks around as he takes his first official steps onto New York soil. A decent crowd has gathered to watch their arrival, and many of those already disembarked still linger, greeting relatives or gathering their bearings. It’s not the most appealing of places to make land, particularly after the spectacle they witnessed in the bay; not that many of the ports he’s visited have been bastions of style and fashion, but this one is especially prosaic. There are few signs anywhere and fewer people around to ask, and the businesses he can see are open but far from busy. The most impressive thing isn’t even part of the port itself – it’s the fact that from where he stands he still has a view of the bridge they spotted on their approach.

He digs his ticket out of his pocket, hoping for some clarification. There he finds a name: South Street Seaport.

“There’s only so much further we can take this, Alastair.”

“Don’t worry yourself. Come, this way.”

Alastair’s moving before he even has time to react, sending him scrambling to follow. He strides with a purpose Grayson hasn’t seen in some time, and it’s that he blames for his irritability as they pass through the yard.

“Do I dare even ask what it is you’re scheming here?”

“One won’t make it far in this city on charm and good looks alone,” Alastair says, and Grayson doesn’t miss the way his _scheming_ comment goes ignored. “What one _needs_ , above all else, is – ah. There.”

He stops, and Grayson follows his line of vision to find a small shop. The board set up by the door promises, among other things, currency exchanging services, little drawings of pound signs and dollar symbols surrounding the proclamation.

He turns back to Alastair, letting his frown speak for itself.

Alastair in turn looks most put-upon. “Honestly, Grayson. I won’t even handle the money if that’s what concerns you. I’ll wait right here.”

“You _know_ what concerns me,” Grayson says, voice low.

“Why not take advice from the man who’s been here before? Even were I to pull Hastings out of a hat for you right here you’d _still_ need appropriate funds to do whatever it is you’re planning.” He steps closer, just enough for it to feel meaningful. “Put a leash on your paranoia, for both our sakes.”

Grayson stares him down. This is another display of that strange and newfound defiance from the other night, but Grayson’s neither a fool nor short a backbone; he won’t be intimidated by this change in attitude. He may not be willing to physically challenge him on the matter, but in no way does that mean he’s giving in.

He jabs a finger in Alastair’s direction.

“You’ll wait where I can see you.”

Alastair dips his head, gestures widely with his arm: _after you_. Grayson hears him follow along as he heads across to the shop, saving him the indignity of having to look behind himself to make sure. He waits by the door as Grayson steps inside, their arrival loud enough to alert the man scribbling away at something by the counter.

He’s not sure what to expect, but the man is friendly enough, not overly eager to get his hands on Grayson’s funds, but with nothing to compare against he can only hope he isn’t being taken advantage of.

Not too badly, at least.

As he waits his eye catches on the subject of the man’s scribbling: one of the city’s papers, the previous day’s edition if he’s reading things correctly. Little blocks and letters from certain headlines are coloured in, and tiny shapes skirt around the margins and whatever other space exists for them, though Grayson’s more interested in the stories. His curiosity gets the best of him: he’s forced to tilt his head some, but eventually he’s able to make out the titles. One mentions violence around somewhere called Five Points, another speaks of the latest victim in a rash of disappearances; before he can read any more of either money starts being moved around, and he has to shift his attention elsewhere.

Their transaction is almost complete when the man looks past him suddenly and says, “Don’t mind him, he’s friendly enough.”

Grayson turns, suspicions rising –

Alastair is staring down at his feet, where a ginger cat sits, staring up at him. There’s a frown on his face, such an intense expression of concentration that Grayson hardly knows what to say. He isn’t even sure Alastair’s heard the man until he makes a considering noise.

“Would you know of any places fit for travellers to stay?”

Grayson opens his mouth to interrupt –

“Depends on how long you plan on being here.”

He turns to face the shopkeeper and finds him watching, eyes shrewder than they’ve been the entire time they’ve spoken, though what the man could possibly gain from such information is lost on him.

Grayson lets nothing show regardless. “With any luck, no longer than is necessary.”

There’s a moment of only silence. Then the man shrugs, and says, “You could try the Cosmopolitan Hotel, on Chambers and West Broadway. It’s popular enough with travellers.”

He bids the man thanks, and as he’s turning towards the door he catches the tail end of what looks like Alastair straightening up, the ginger cat now twisting itself around his legs. Alastair meets his gaze, one eyebrow ticking up as though in challenge, but Grayson says nothing, only leads him out of the store.

“I presume you have some reasoning for this, too.”

“You presume correctly.”

Alastair casts about before making off in another direction. With no other choice Grayson’s forced to follow along once more, glancing back one last time to the sight of a mournful-looking cat before they leave the yard behind.

He’d expected it to be cold, but that doesn’t take the sting out of the chill wind that buffets them from down streets and between buildings. It isn’t yet snowing, though he expects he’ll see some eventually; the clouds can only hang above them as ominously as they are for so long. Between the inescapable nature of the weather and Alastair’s confident pace he hardly has the chance to observe the city in the manner he desires. Instead he has to make do with fleeting impressions: buildings that seem to surround him on all sides, structures barely different from those in London but still somehow foreign to his mind; people that fill the streets everywhere he looks, races and builds and social standings all thrown together in a chaotic blend; and noise, construction and transport and conversation, accents that are so close to his own and others that are all but alien to him.

It would be so easy, he thinks, for one to lose oneself here. And not just in the sense of all the distractions a city of this size has to offer; no, from the number of immigrants to the sheer amount of people making their lives here it would be simple to become someone else, or disappear entirely.

One more reason for Alastair to choose this place, he supposes.

“How much do you remember about the things you’ve done?”

Alastair slows before coming to a stop entirely, looking back at him with an expression so bewildered Grayson almost worries what he heard come out of his mouth wasn’t actually what was said. In truth he doesn’t know what brought the words forth, or how they escaped him so easily – for all his musings about the man earlier it was never his intention to bring any of it to light – but they’re out now, suspended in between them, and there’s nothing he can do to change that.

Alastair barely seems to blink. His eyes have narrowed. The crowd around them continues to move, two still points in a river.

“ _This_ is where your mind wanders?”

Grayson tenses. “It’s as good a place as any.”

“Of course. It’s still the same question after all, no matter how you word it.”

“What?”

“One doesn’t easily forget their own nature,” Alastair says, taking a step closer, voice only for him, “especially with such _constant_ reminders. As though you’re in any position to pass judgement.”

“That’s not what I –”

But Alastair’s already walking away, and if he remains hovering there in bafflement for too long he’ll lose sight of him completely. So he grits his teeth and storms after him, and if he happens to jostle a few shoulders in the process of catching up it barely registers.

“How could I forget,” he hisses once he’s close enough, “you have an eye on all the angles, don’t you?”

Alastair gives him nothing in return.

It leaves him in an uncharitable mood for the rest of their journey, careless towards sights he might’ve otherwise appreciated as well as the image he himself provides. More than once a curious stranger finds their attention drawn by the two rugged yet handsome men travelling down the street, but between the scowl of the dark-haired one and the cool indifference of the other, most quickly find their attention shifting elsewhere.

Grayson is angry and oblivious to all this. Alastair, it seems, just doesn’t care.

It’s a little while later that their pace finally begins to slow, and Grayson emerges from his funk long enough to take in their surroundings. The building that catches his attention is the one they’re meant for, he’s certain of that even before he’s seen it properly. It looms from the corner, larger than nearly all that surrounds it, both in size and personality, with its red brick exterior, decorative columns, and shades trimming the windows of its ground floor. As they come around closer the better angle provides him a view of the building, and the sign that rests proudly beside the entrance: _The Cosmopolitan Hotel_.

Alastair is crossing the street before any more can be done, and Grayson has no choice but to follow.

His anger hasn’t gone anywhere, for all that he can see through it at the moment; he can still feel it, hot under his skin, wrapped tight around the inside of his chest. The hotel’s interior only adds fuel to the fire, with the curious eyes of those lingering in the foyer and the sound of Alastair across the space, charming his way into a room for them both. He looks over his shoulder towards Grayson at one point in the conversation, and Grayson sees it as though it’s happening at half speed, thinking to himself in that moment:

He holds all the money. He could’ve forced the matter, dug his heels in and refused to play along until Alastair knew it wasn’t just empty words. He could still, in fact – could just turn around and leave him standing there, take back control the way he ought to, but when Alastair looks back at him again, cocking his head towards the desk, Grayson finds himself walking forward without argument, handing over the few dollars their stay demands. The ledger on the counter bears Alastair’s false name, and he’s grateful for the reminder as he signs his own.

“Second floor,” Alastair murmurs, palming the key.

There’s an elevator somewhere in the building, though they end up trudging up the stairs instead, and with every step Grayson finds the tightness in his chest winding closer and closer, until his fingers are itching with the desire to reach out, snatch the back of Alastair’s coat, and …

His hands are aching fists by the time they reach the room.

“Much better. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Alastair is making himself comfortable on one of the beds. The door shuts behind Grayson with a quiet _click_ as he looks around, taking it all in. It’s larger than their cabin had been, though that’s hardly an achievement; that they have a proper window is probably the most notable thing about the room, as everything else, from the wallpaper to the furnishings, is standard hotel fare.

Grayson barely keeps himself from dropping their luggage dramatically to the floor.

“Why are you here?”

“Would you have trusted me in a separate room? Regardless, this was the cheaper option.”

“No,” he grits out, “why are you _here_? You could have told me what I wanted and tried to escape a dozen times over by now.”

“Because we both know how well such an attempt would go.” Alastair gives him a sceptical look. “Forgive me for wanting to prolong my life a little longer.”

“What, then? Shall we sit here until whatever plan you have in store bears fruit?”

“Hmm, no. I think I’ve kept you in suspense long enough.”

Grayson stills. Alastair remains where he is, half sprawled on the bed, but nevertheless Grayson finds himself shifting his feet slightly, settling into a ready stance. Alastair’s lack of movement means everything and nothing, and for all that Grayson himself is motionless his mind is racing.

Alastair had made a similar comment on the ship, hadn’t he?

“Best get it over with, then,” Grayson says, frowning.

Alastair pauses, tilting his head to one side. “Do you think your dear rebel leader imagined you would come so far? What would she –”

“For _god’s sake_ , Alastair –”

“He’s here, Gray.” Alastair’s eyes are sharp. “Hastings is in New York City.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- [South Street Seaport](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e1/South_Street_Seaport%2C_Detroit_Photographic_Company_%280616%29.jpg) circa 1900s.
> 
> \- [A neat article](https://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/11/realestate/11scapes.html) on The Cosmopolitan Hotel, now called The Frederick Hotel. [This](https://static01.nyt.com/images/2009/10/08/realestate/11scapes2-lg.jpg) picture is the one I used for its visual reference.
> 
> \- Alastair and the cat are nothing but pure self-indulgence but I thought: you know what? Fuck it. I like cats. I like Alastair. Where else am I gonna get the chance to put them together? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> This is a weirdly introspective chapter with a fair number of call backs to earlier events/dialogue (both in game and fic) and I don't know exactly how I feel about it, but ... hopefully y'all get something out of it. :s


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for the return of the Dumb Author Headcanons in this chapter. This is only the foundation - there'll be more in the weeks to come.
> 
> Chapter first posted 12 February 2019.

The ground floor of the _Cosmopolitan_ is home to, among other things, a fine dining room meant for use at most hours of the day. Tables upon tables fill the space, covered by heavy tablecloths, polished silverware, and expensive-looking china. A long bank of windows obscured by pale, gauzy curtains filters in the morning sun, regardless of how weak it is. Plants in vases and paintings bring colour to room; along the far wall, providing a different sort of colour, stands a bar, bottles of all shapes and sizes proudly on display.

From a chaise lounge near the room’s entrance Grayson sees all this. He also watches Alastair, seated at one of the tables facing him, devour his second plate of food since sitting down. Whatever he’s having, Grayson hopes what money he left on the table will cover it. They only have so much, and with no idea of how long it needs to last them …

At least the chef will be pleased, Grayson thinks, watching as one of the waiters scurries away with an empty dish. Where this ravenous hunger came from, he’s not entirely sure; Alastair ate well enough on the ship, or so it seemed at the time. Perhaps the lack of lurching to and fro has rekindled his true appetite. Perhaps it’s the knowledge of what’s to come that’s done it.

Grayson’s still amazed they both made it through the previous night, let alone this morning.

Alastair had, predictably, refused to divulge any further details after that first, most tantalising taste, claiming a need to rest following their long journey.

“I realise it’s all a matter of urgency for you,” he’d said, far too casually, “but he won’t be going anywhere. Wouldn’t you rather confront him at the height of your strength?”

He’d been so close, fists shaking, heart pounding, to demonstrating just how strong he felt; looking up at him as Alastair had been, Grayson had nearly given in. He’d thought then to leave, knowing Alastair would give him no answer, leave and find the bastard himself, and damn the consequences of deserting Alastair. But it wouldn’t change the size of the city, or the number of people in it, and some part of him continued to believe a trap of Alastair’s still waited to snap shut on him.

So he had stayed, against all instincts and desires, stayed and let his mind run free with plans and possibilities, and all the while Alastair had kept the peace, as silent and watchful as a ghost.

Grayson had barely slept that night. So much for the height of his strength.

He reaches a hand up to scrub through his hair. It’d been a few hours of mindless stagnation before he thought to finally do what he’d intended to for what felt like an age, digging out his blade and moving for the sink. The simple bar of soap had had to suffice; he’d taken to his hair after that, careful cuts lest he ended up with a bald patch. Alastair’s eyes had lingered on him after he’d emerged, gaze as keen as ever, but Grayson had made no comment nor offered him the blade in courtesy.

He thinks he did a passable job – as good as he’ll get without another’s help – and with both blades strapped to his person and his revolver safely holstered he feels more like himself than he has in a while. He’s all too aware of how out of place it leaves Alastair looking: still scruffy, still not casting the imposing figure he once did. He’ll have to wolf down more than a few meals to return to what he was.

Grayson frowns at his own unintentional play on words. Something about those kinds of thoughts still feels distasteful, even considering their regular exchange of insults.

Alastair means to accompany him, that much is certain, though for what purpose he cannot say. The man’s unwillingness to reveal – or act on – his motivations is more than a sore spot for him now. For all of Alastair’s cunning, witnessed or implied, Grayson refuses to believe he’s some true villainous mastermind, yet with his every refusal to provide information, with his every step insinuating himself further into Grayson’s search, the feeling that there’s a circle closing around him only grows; a noose around his neck.

The luxury of the room is apparently not enough to draw a crowd, or perhaps it’s the early hour that’s to blame: either way, there are surprisingly few people at the other tables. All of them are alone, eating or reading the morning’s news or distracting themselves with their work; there’s no conversation that fills the room, only the sound of cutlery against crockery and bodies shifting in seats. And so he hears it immediately when the laughter starts behind him, when the rhythm of chatter gains in volume until every word is clear, and then those responsible walk past. A group of three men. He pays them no mind.

“Hey, mister. Excuse me –”

Rather, that’s what he _intended_.

“– but you’re one of those Britons, aren’t you?”

Grayson looks up at him, frowning. Even had the accent not given him away, the man is undeniably American – bold, blonde, and so, so young. He doesn’t seem dissuaded by Grayson’s severe countenance, his expression open and patient as he watches him.

“I beg your pardon?” Grayson finally says.

The man’s face lights up.

“Oh, I knew it! My friends and I, y’see, we took lodgings after you, and as soon as I signed that guest ledger and saw your names above ours I was _sure_.”

Through all this the man has been leaning closer and closer, until he’s all but plastered along the edge of the lounge. Grayson shifts just enough to avoid craning his neck but that’s all the ground he gives, and the urge he feels to settle one hand by the nearest blade he only just resists.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“We’re from out of state – Vermont, maybe you’ve heard of it? We don’t see many tourists in our home town, but I figured if we’d find a Briton anywhere, it’d be –”

“Get to the point, John, for god’s sake,” one of the man’s friends calls out.

“Okay!” He glares over his shoulder at them before turning back. Then he leans in further and says, voice low, “It’s all a joke, isn’t it? Like a fairy-tale. You don’t really think it’s true, do you?”

Grayson feels some of his patience slip. “What are you talking about?”

“ _Lycans_. Or, what’s that other thing I’ve heard – Half-Breeds?”

He’s all too grateful for the seat under him in that moment. He thinks the world might suddenly feel unsteady were he standing. The young man’s friends are watching him openly now as well, one more speculatively than the other, but even that observation feels weak and half formed in the bewilderment that is his mind.

His silence is verging on slipping from confused to uncomfortable. Grayson’s frown deepens as he pulls his thoughts together.

“What makes you think they aren’t?”

“Besides the fact that it’s ridiculous?”

It’s the speculative looking one that speaks, entirely confident in what he’s saying; another particularly American trait. The third friend is shaking his head, though. By the look on his face Grayson’s beginning to think this is a common argument amongst them.

“Plenty of ridiculous things are true. The Britons have printed newspaper articles about them, for god’s sake.”

“And no one's ever printed anything false in the newspapers before,” the sceptic scoffs. “You remember that story about the Devil of Leeds, don’t you?”

“Or that one about the giant, hairy ape creature that lives in the forests?” The first man – John, wasn’t it? – adds.

“They have their own _name_ for them in Louisiana. That _can’t_ be a coincidence.”

Grayson shifts back along the lounge as subtly as he’s able. The three seem to have forgotten about him for the time being, a detail he’s more than happy to take notice of, but he knows it won’t last forever. He could simply get to his feet and leave them behind; he owes them no manners, these strangers that know him by his alias and nothing else.

But they’ve seen him, haven’t they? A poor attitude can be incentive enough to remember a person’s face, and his nationality is already a known quantity. All he’d need is for one person to come asking the right questions …

“Making new friends, are we, Arthur?”

Alastair stands before him, having managed to sneak up on him in the distraction of the conversation. Undoubted he’s seen the entire exchange, quite possibly heard it, too, if his hearing is anywhere near as good as Grayson suspects it is. His sudden appearance – and likely his accent, too – draws the attention of the men almost immediately.

“You’re with him, then? Maybe you can give us an answer. We’ve barely got a word out of this one.” John gestures towards Grayson, who only just resists shaking his head.

“Can you tell us? Are those creatures real?”

“Have you seen one?”

He watches Alastair’s attention slide from one man to the next, until ultimately their eyes meet. His expression is guarded, more carefully than Grayson thinks he personally accomplished. He’s sure that even now some of it is showing through, his curiosity as to how he’ll answer plain to see.

Alastair, though, just gives the men a graceful shrug.

“They say there’s a kernel of truth in every story.” Then, to Grayson: “We should be moving on.”

He needs no further prompting. Grayson’s on his feet and brushing past the men before he can even appreciate the looks of confusion on their faces, Alastair close behind him. The last he hears of any of them is their scrambling amongst themselves, and then he’s out, leaving the room, and quickly after, the hotel itself, behind him.

The chill of the morning settles upon him rapidly. New York winters seem to rival those of London; the buildings protect them from the worst of the wind, though they do nothing to ward against the slurry that splashes up above his ankles. Grayson walks, no real destination in mind, no clear thought in his head, and he’s made it down a number of streets before he catches out of the corner of his eye the form of Alastair, somehow still keeping along with him.

“Continue thinking that hard and you’re sure to strain something.”

Grayson slows his pace until Alastair pulls ahead somewhat. He picks up the slack effortlessly, confidence in every step, and while Grayson may be loath to willingly fall into a subordinate role, facts must be faced: he doesn’t know where Hastings is. The shift in position means he catches the look that Alastair levels at him, there and gone again.

“Surely you’ve encountered an American before today,” Alastair says after a moment.

“Of course I have.” He tries not to sound too curt, fails. “Never ones that thought … _that_ , however.”

Alastair seems to inherit Grayson’s prior silence, then, staring ahead, an expression of deep concentration on his face. He feels no qualms about watching Alastair, having been the subject of similar observation only moments before. The other man’s reaction to all this is a far more potent curiosity than his own questions.

They pause at the corner of a street to allow a carriage to pass, and Alastair folds his arms across his chest.

“They’re young, and foolish. We won’t always be so lucky.”

Grayson wonders if he’s specifically referencing those men in the hotel, or speaking to the American population as a whole.

“How much contact have you had with the Half-Breeds here?” he asks.

He isn’t sure he’ll get an answer, but Alastair surprises him – he shakes his head, and says, “My American brethren have clearly mastered the art of stealth if they’ve moved into the realm of fairy-tales.”

“Perhaps your own operations should have followed their example.”

“They deceived you long enough, did they not?” Alastair glances his way, and there’s something … strangely _playful_ about the look on his face. “Regardless, such a thing would be even beyond the reach of our long lives.”

“You may be right.”

How different would all their lives be had they been forced to carry out their duties, their very _existences_ , in the shadows? He almost can’t imagine it.

Their slow-paced canvassing of the city continues. The roads are mostly a chaotic sprawl to his eyes, though he’s beginning to see the structure in all the noise; Alastair, meanwhile, leads the way through the streets with the knowledge of one that grew up on them, stopping only for traffic or to take a closer look at a specific building. Grayson bites his tongue against his complaints of how long this is all taking, though it’s a struggle that only grows more difficult with every passing minute. He can already hear Alastair’s response, something sardonic or cutting, a quip at his expense, and he’s rather well off on those at the moment, thank you very much.

He’s not sure how long they’ve been walking when Alastair makes his latest stop, and as he’s busy with whatever observations he’s forming it leaves Grayson with nothing but to wait. The street they’re on this time is more residential than business: fewer pedestrians pass them by, but some of those he assumes live in the buildings linger out the front. The image that’s presented to him is impressive in its design, rows of brownstone buildings reaching nearly as far as he can see. He’s doing some admiring of his own when he overhears a conversation two women are having nearby.

“Horrible, isn’t it?”

“Tragic. What’s this city coming to?”

“Know what else I heard? A friend of mine, she told me _her_ friend’s son came home the other day, an honest to God _bite_ on his arm.”

Grayson goes still.

“Poor child. More freaks on the streets these days than we can handle.”

He’s turning even before the woman’s finished speaking, focused and closer than he thinks –

Alastair’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, pulls him back around.

“What –”

“Don’t get distracted,” Alastair mutters. He tries to drag him away, further down the road; Grayson plants his feet.

“Distracted? Did you not hear what she just said?”

“This isn’t what we’re here for.”

Grayson raises his eyebrows at that, knowing exactly how indignant he looks and nowhere near caring. “You’ve suddenly remembered our purpose, have you?”

So much for keeping his complaints to himself. Alastair’s grasp is tight on his shoulder and so Grayson reaches up to match it, taking hold of his arm above the elbow, clearly moving his other hand to rest on the hilt of his blade. They must look strange, standing so close, holding onto each other the way they are, but all that’s in Grayson’s mind at that moment is the feel of Alastair’s arm under his grip and the surety of his own draw speed.

Alastair’s eyes are locked on his, though, and he looks typically unfazed.

“Such impatience. You’ve come so far, and have so little left between you and your goal, but if you’d rather go chasing old wives’ tales then by all means,” and he gestures towards the women with his free hand. “I’ve seen all I need.”

“Finally ready to end this charade? Lead the way.”

Only after Alastair has released him does Grayson relinquish his own grip. Even then Alastair doesn’t immediately head off, watching him for a moment instead before he finally turns away.

Their pace begins to pick up then, and if he’d thought Alastair had moved with resolve before it’s nothing compared to how he weaves through the crowd now. Fewer bodies are bumped out of the way than he expects, transforming the exercise into something strangely fluid; Grayson, by comparison, feels clumsy and slow no matter how well he keeps up with him. There’s a moment when the movement of the crowd shifts in such a way that Alastair is masked from his sight, and by the time he pushes through has vanished entirely, and for a few long seconds everything seems to just _stop_. Grayson’s insides lurch back into motion in an instant, his mind already spinning a litany of _it happened, I lost him, he’s gone_ –

And then the sea of bodies parts, and there’s Alastair, looking back at him.

What little sunshine there had been seems to give up entirely as they carry on, disappearing behind a lengthy cloudbank and turning the grey day even darker. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to ward off the growing chill, quickly realising as the wind pushes him along another reason behind the cold: they’re heading back towards the waterfront.

He doesn’t quite recognise the direction they’re heading – some buildings look similar to those they’d passed the morning of their arrival, but he can’t be completely sure – and surrounded on all sides as they are he can’t even use the water as a frame of reference. Now more than any time before he feels as though his blind following of Alastair is going to blow up in his face. It’s only the manner in which it happens that’s still to be determined.

Eventually they seem to reach their destination, a sign welcoming them to City Pier A. Warehouses are abundant; as they make their approach the gaps between buildings grant him glimpses of the impressive statue they’d seen the day before, there and gone again, a brief streak of colour against the darkening sky. The men working the yard are clearly visible, the guards he expects to see less so. He’s sure they’re here, but the fact that he can’t immediately spot them troubles him.

Alastair’s confidence takes on a different tone the further into the yard they move. He still carries himself with the same determination as before, but there’s something wary in the way he looks around the space, in the way he eyes those close by. It sets a spark to Grayson’s instincts, already on high alert and still climbing. He can only imagine how they both must look. Hopefully no one sees enough of them to wonder.

Grayson’s started to lose count of the warehouses they’ve passed when Alastair comes to an abrupt stop.

“There,” he says, voice low, “that one.”

He glances over towards where Alastair is looking. It’s set slightly apart from the others nearby, but beyond that there’s nothing to distinguish the warehouse from the rest, no markings or signage to declare whose property lies within.

That’s probably for the best, he thinks.

“Go on, then,” Grayson says.

Alastair looks at him.

Grayson looks right back. “You didn’t think bringing me to the door would be enough, did you? Hurry up, before we’re spotted.”

“As you wish,” he grits out, and storms forward.

The larger, main doors are passed over in favour of a side entrance, and still the absolute lack of patrolling security has him worried. Even were he able to believe the locals could be so apathetic – possible, but still asking a lot – the fact that he’s seen no United India guards is almost beyond comprehension. While Alastair busies himself tampering with the lock Grayson acts as sentry. It’s an entirely useless role: no one appears to stop them, and a moment later the door creaks open.

He follows Alastair inside, keeping close to the wall as he tightly shuts the door behind them. They’re in some sort of antechamber, another set of doors between them and whatever is waiting for him. What _should be_ waiting for him. His hand is firmly on the hilt of his blade as he looks to Alastair, nodding him towards the doors; a few silent seconds of a countdown and he pulls it open, and Grayson’s moving forward before it’s fully done.

The darkness of the room is the first thing he notices. The windows set high into the walls are boarded over, allowing only the smallest amount of light inside; with how weak the sun is it might as well be evening.

The next thing he notices is that the warehouse is empty.

No cargo, no United India cronies. No Hastings.

Nothing.

Grayson turns. “What is this?”

Alastair is still standing by the doors. He stares into the room as though Grayson hadn’t spoken, eyes roving over the empty space, and when he finally moves further in it’s with a kind of dazedness he’s never before seen him wear.

That Grayson notices at all is miraculous, what with how his vision is closing in around the edges.

“Alastair. _What is this_.”

His voice comes out a growl. Still Alastair ignores him, drawing closer until he’s only a few paces away. His gaze finally lands on something, sticks there; a frown creeps across his face.

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

Grayson almost laughs. “Really? Whatever gave you that impression?”

“This is the place, I swear it. Look, here, they’ve –”

“Give it up, Alastair! You can’t lie your way out of this one –”

“ _Look_ , you damn fool!” he snaps, crossing the floor to point sharply at something.

Grayson narrows his eyes, but Alastair is as resolute as he’s ever seen him; even knowing how poor an idea it is he slowly matches his steps, moves closer. There, in the deepest shadows near the wall, sits two crates. This must be what drew his attention earlier, Grayson thinks, peering over them himself. As he looks, an all too familiar symbol, stamped on the side of both crates, catches his eye.

The United India Company mark is unmistakable.

The crates themselves are empty, but inside the bottom of the wood is dark, stained with something that could be old blood.

Grayson takes in a deep breath and feels it rattle everything inside him.

“All this proves,” he says, voice deceptively calm to his own ears, “is that they were here. Not _where they’ve gone_. Not where Hastings _is now_.”

He turns on Alastair to find him standing utterly, utterly still. In darkness such as this it’s difficult to make out much of anything that isn’t close, but Alastair’s face is as clear as it’s ever been, and it’s turned into something entirely void of emotion. They stare each other down. The whole world seems to stop to match them, nothing but the sound of their breathing and his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“Where is he, Alastair?”

Grayson’s grip on his blade has turned white-knuckled, so tight it’s shaking.

And Alastair does something then he would never have expected.

He turns and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... you know I couldn't let it be that easy, right?
> 
> \- The Devil of Leeds, aka the [Jersey Devil](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jersey_Devil#The_Leeds_Devil). The name they use in Louisiana is the [rougarou](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rougarou). And of course, the giant hairy ape creature is [Bigfoot](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bigfoot).
> 
> \- I was worried about including the Vermont trio, but my thought process was basically: even in today's day and age we have conspiracy theorists, people questioning things like the moon landing and arguing that the earth is actually flat. Couldn't the equivalent be possible in the world of the game, people doubting the existence of these creatures? Especially coming from those who've never seen them in the flesh?


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... as of tomorrow I'll have officially been posting this thing for a year. Which is kind of ridiculous? I never really thought I'd get this far? I mean, I hoped I would, but I didn't really know? So in that spirit of celebration let me once again say how thankful I am to all of you who've read this monster, come back to it, suffered through my bizarre posting schedule, left comments or kudos or bookmarks or just endured my nonsense ramblings about characters or headcanons or whatever. I never thought I'd luck into finding people who'd actually care about this and yet somehow here you are. Thank you, truly.
> 
> Also it's kind of funny how this timing's worked out, because in terms of importance? This chapter's all the way Up There.
> 
> (Also also happy fourth birthday video game!)
> 
> Chapter first posted 19 February 2019.

Grayson sprints after him.

The inside of the warehouse is deceptively large, certainly bigger than it had appeared from outside; Alastair escapes into another room entirely, one he hadn’t known was there, before Grayson can get a hand on him. He isn’t sure if it’s darker in this part of the building or if it’s just his eyes. He can make out general shapes but nothing more, not until he’s all but running into them. Whatever they are, there’s plenty of them, unfortunately for him, as he skirts around the corner of one just to catch sight of his quarry disappearing behind another. He’s going to lose him in here if he’s not careful, lose him or wind up with a shiv in his back or a piece of broken glass at his throat and he can’t, he _can’t_ let that happen.

Adrenaline races through his veins, pushing him on even as he rounds the next bend to find the path ahead clear. He skids to a stop, ears straining, and muffles his own breath with his hand. Seconds crawl by and he hears nothing.

He’s hiding, the bastard.

“Can’t even face me like a man?” he snarls. His voice sounds thunderous in the sudden silence.

He receives no response. Not that he’d expected one.

History is echoing itself again, he realises distantly, taking step after measured step. Here they are again, only this time Alastair’s not throwing justifications from the shadows and Nikola is safe across the sea. Some part of him, bitter and vindictive, wants to shout this to the heavens, but if Grayson’s made this realisation it’s all but guaranteed Alastair has, too.

Grayson takes one more step and stops again.

Besides, he shouldn’t give away his position. Alastair already has an inborn advantage. No need to help him any further.

For all that his heart’s thumping in his ears he hasn’t lost himself entirely to the moment: he knows better than to let that happen. Not now, no matter how much he might want to surrender to instinct. So he waits, half crouched in place, quiets his breathing and closes his eyes. Focuses.

He’s not sure how long it is after that that he notices the sound. It’s barely there, on the very edge of his hearing, but once he knows it’s there it’s all that’s in his mind. Footsteps, carefully considered but above all else, close by. He forces himself not to move, not until he’s heard a few more, not until the picture is clear in his head …

A boot scrapes against the ground and Grayson _charges_ , sprinting down the path and around the nearest corner to slam right into Alastair.

“Oof!”

It’s clear the other man wasn’t expecting him to throw himself bodily into a fray, both from the surprised noise he makes and the way the two of them end up careening into the thing standing to one side – a shelf that they send crashing noisily to the floor. The sound is piercing in the silence but Grayson might as well be deaf for all it reaches him. There’s a dull ache coming from his shoulder – Alastair bore the brunt of their landing, but he must have clipped something on the way down – but that too is shoved aside as Grayson scrambles to get a proper grasp on Alastair’s bucking form.

He’s had to release his grasp on his blade, but that’s easily fixed –

Alastair slams a knee up into his abdomen and Grayson gasps.

He barely keeps himself from keeling over to one side as he fights to get his breath back, and he can feel Alastair squirming beneath him. There are hands twisting in the fabric of his coat suddenly, far too close to his neck for comfort, but before he can dislodge them he’s being shoved, hard.

He lands rough on his hip, grits his teeth against the jolt and the urge to breathe both and lunges _again_ , locking both arms around Alastair’s leg before the man can get away from him. He almost brings him down in the attempt, but Alastair rallies; the kick he’s expecting catches him somewhere around the kidney, the sharp heel of his boot digging viciously in, and though Grayson grunts he doesn’t let go.

Reaching for his blade is impossible in his current position, and Alastair’s already winding up for another kick. There has to be _something_. His mind races even as he’s bracing for the impact: it comes a second later and he knows, even before he hears Alastair snarl above him, that his hold won’t last another hit like that. Tightening his grip with one arm he casts around with the other, reaching blindly –

His fingers scrape something solid and he grabs it immediately, swinging it up and into Alastair’s side. Whether it’s the heft of the object or where he hit him, Grayson doesn’t know, but Alastair makes a pained noise, staggers a little.

That’s an encouraging sign.

Grayson quickly hits him again.

He feels it more this time when Alastair tries to move away from the blow, when his foot shifts – only there’s a noise that comes along with it, an odd shattering, and between one heartbeat and the next his balance starts to tilt precariously.

Grayson takes the chance, releases his grip on the leg to jam his shoulder into his side, the hardest shove he can manage without momentum.

They end up on the ground for the second time that day.

Alastair lies there, half-sprawled over the shelf and its broken contents, nearly as breathless as he himself is, and stares up at him with a look somewhere between bewildered and furious.

“For the love of _god_ , Grays –”

Grayson punches him so hard his jaw snaps shut.

His fist is already pulled back for the next but it feels as though an age passes before it connects, and all that he can think in that endless moment is: finally. Finally, _finally_. His heart pounds with it, his blood singing, rushing so loudly in his ears he almost can’t hear the crash of flesh against flesh, _finally_ –

Alastair’s jaw is a mess, blood rushing from his mouth and nose alike, though not all of it is his, Grayson realises as he clenches his fist, feeling sparks of pain across his knuckles. In this brief moment of hesitation Alastair cracks an eye open, looks up at him, and Grayson almost starts. Fuck, is that gold spilling across his iris …?

He reaches for his weapon this time but it’s the only moment Alastair needs, striking faster than he’s able to see, fist slamming into his chin, and Grayson’s head snaps back with a sickening _crack_.

He thinks he sees actual stars for an instant there but Alastair’s assault continues before he can say for sure, a hard punch across his nose and another to his already tender jaw, and Grayson loses enough of himself then to allow Alastair the chance to shove him back.

They both stumble to their feet. Grayson shakes his head a little, trying to dispel his dizziness, but comes away from it worse than he’d started; his lower jaw, too, feels as though it’s about to wobble off. At the very least he isn’t alone in his suffering. Alastair is clearly favouring one side, and blood still drips from his nose and mouth, but it’s a different detail that catches his attention. There’s no unnatural light to his eyes, no Lycan gold like he expects to see, and it occurs to him then exactly what happened.

“Sneaky little shit,” he rasps.

Alastair’s response is to spit a mouthful of blood to the floor.

They stare each other down for a few long moments before Alastair moves, not the rush he’s expecting but slow, cautious steps away from the detritus of their fight so far. Grayson mimics him until they’re both standing in the clear, a few paces away from each other. He feels an odd sensation then, reaches up to touch his face and brings away fingers wet with blood. It’s both a cut across the outside of his nose and the nostril itself, but at least from what he can feel the damn thing isn’t broken.

“Come on, then. Why stop at simple distraction? Get it over with.”

Alastair bares his teeth. “Do you want me as a man or a beast, Grayson? Make up your _damn mind_.”

“You first,” Grayson snarls.

He’s not sure who starts it but they begin to circle one another, movement as slow and careful as before, both knowing without speaking a word exactly where the line is, should either of them decide to cross it. It’s as they’re making this drawn out loop of one another that he thinks he spots Alastair’s gaze shift from him to the darkened rafters of the warehouse – thinks he sees the shadow of his Lycan form cross his face – but in the time it takes for him to blink the moment passes, and he wonders if he saw anything at all.

Something between them changes then, so inexplicable he’s not even sure _how_ he knows. It’s like a cold wind blowing across the back of his neck, the closest thing he can compare it to being instinct, but while his reliance on intuition is nothing new, something about this feels … strange.

The way Alastair is watching him likely has something to do with it. Despite how he’s holding himself there’s a kind of litheness to his movements that wasn’t there before, a grace that his mind can only associate with one thing. The scrutiny in Alastair’s eyes, the intensity of his expression – it sets his nerves alight.

“Enjoying yourself so far? Don’t act as though you aren’t: I can see it clear as day.”

Grayson frowns. “And what is it you think you see?”

“Your _bloodlust_. If only you knew how you look right now.” Alastair’s laughter is a short, dark sound. He shakes his head. “And still you call _me_ monster.”

Something about the dig sticks under his skin, a thorn he can’t quite dislodge, and he blames the sudden flood of anger he feels for the way his face abruptly heats. It’s ridiculous, makes him _feel_ ridiculous, and the loop feeds into itself until he feels he might just shake apart from it. Worst of all is the tiny voice it gives life to, the one that wonders: is it actually showing on his face?

If there’s truly something there for Alastair to see then the rising colour in his cheeks won’t have gone unnoticed either.

His jaw is clenched so hard he’s waiting for something to crack. Childish as it feels he makes a show of reaching across to the closest of his sheaths, curling his hand around the hilt.

“By all means, keep talking.”

Alastair sees, because of course he does, but he only curls his lip in amusement. “What’s stopping you? Your _knightly_ honour?”

Grayson’s moving before he even realises it. He catches a brief flicker of something across Alastair’s face before he too is dashing forward, and then he’s entirely more focused on pulling his blade free, bringing it up in a swift slash –

Alastair dodges the strike, wrapping his own arm around Grayson’s and twisting up sharply. Between the pressure on his wrist and the position it’s forced into he has no choice but to drop his weapon; even as it’s clattering to the ground Grayson’s burying his fist in Alastair’s gut, taking the momentary distraction to free his trapped limb. Alastair rallies faster than he expects, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him around and off balance, and he barely gets a hand up in time to block the punch that comes his way.

All he needs is to reach his second blade but it might as well be across the room rather than strapped to him, Alastair is so relentless. Grayson only just manages to land an answering blow before he’s being rushed again, Alastair taking hold of both his arms this time and grappling with him.

This can’t go on much longer.

So he bashes his head right into Alastair’s.

The sound Alastair makes is somewhere between shock and pain, where his own is rather more instinctual:

“Fuck!”

They’re both left reeling but Grayson forces himself through the discomfort first. He’s the one who does the grabbing this time, an awkward halting dance that only ends when he has Alastair pinned against the wall. He doesn’t know how long the man’s dazedness will last so he’ll have to be quick; already Alastair’s hands are groping at his arms, not yet coordinated enough to dislodge them or push him back. All that’s left to do is get a hand on his other blade.

Alastair’s gaze is somewhere off behind his shoulder, though, focused for all that the confused frown says otherwise. Grayson’s hands start to shake.

“Look at me, damn you!”

Alastair does.

Grayson has just enough time to recognise the look on Alastair’s face before fingers close around his throat. The speed startles him, as does the strength behind his grasp. It’s pure animal instinct that has him scrabbling at Alastair’s hands in an attempt to loosen them, even as his experience screams for him to reach for his blade instead –

He goes from facing the wall to being up against it himself suddenly, the impact crushing out of him what little air he has left. His toes barely scrape the floor and if his mind wasn’t already on the verge of stalling that realisation alone would be enough to do it. He finally pries one of his own hands free, clocks Alastair in the side of the head, but it’s a weak punch, uncoordinated, and Alastair moves with an inhuman grace, in one smooth motion switching to a single-handed hold, catching Grayson’s follow-up with the other.

How can he still have such a strong grasp with only one hand? The thought feels as though it’s coming from somewhere far away, lost behind the press of Alastair’s body against his own and the burning of his lungs. The hand that Alastair had caught is being held against the wall beside him, an awkward and uncomfortable position, and there’s nothing he can do to break free.

And then Alastair’s suddenly leaning in, and for one brief, bright moment he’s expecting teeth, the rush of blood down his front from his torn-open throat, but instead there’s Alastair’s breath, hot against his ear, and his voice, so low he nearly misses it.

“We’re not alone.”

He doesn’t register the meaning of the words at first, not until he notices how Alastair’s eyes are cutting away to one side; not until he notices the hand around his neck isn’t holding quite as tightly as it had been. He should shove the man clear, put enough space between them that he can draw his blade and drive it right between his ribs … but where’s the logic in unconventional tactics when his back is literally already up against a wall?

He looks over Alastair’s shoulder.

There’s a figure standing in the shadows, watching them.

A good deal happens then in a short span of time. He settles heavily on his feet as Alastair releases him, the other man already turning to race towards their spectator, who _snarls_ in answer, finally close enough for Grayson to see – the sunken, waxy skin. The two bottomless pits called eyes. The mouth, lips pulled back to expose rows of sharp, sharp teeth.

Vampire.

Before, his mind had been foggy from lack of oxygen; now it feels as though he can barely think through the number of questions filling his head. It’s still only so much noise, nothing he can – or should – concentrate on in the moment, especially as a second Vampire leaps at him from out around a darkened corner.

It’s fast, the damnable thing, faster than most Lycans he’s faced, snapping and biting at him, and Grayson just barely manages to throw the thing off him before it sinks those teeth in. He gets about two arm’s lengths between them before the thing recovers but at least his back is no longer against the wall. He paces much as the creature does as he waits for the next strike to come, pulling his blade free. Those claws at the ends of its fingers look just as nasty as that gaping maw. He’s lucky he didn’t end up slashed in their first exchange.

The worn trousers and plain shirt suggest this was once a man, but there’s nothing even remotely human left in the eyes of the creature watching him now. All he sees is hunger, the calculating gaze of a predator with its sight set on its next meal.

It leaps at him, striking out with sharp claws. Grayson knocks the arm away but the next comes just as fast, and he has to twist himself almost in half to avoid being gouged. He throws a swipe out, catching it across the chest, and though the thing snarls in pain it’s not discouraged for long.

When it comes for him this time he feints to one side, ducking under the hand that reaches for his face and grabbing hold of the other arm. It leaves him exactly where he wants to be: right in front of the creature’s torso. Before it can do anything to stop him he plunges his blade into its chest, right up to the hilt. The Vampire makes a gurgling, gasping sound and he wrenches his wrist as hard as he can.

It’s slumping forward even before he pulls his weapon free, hits the ground with a heavy _thump_ and Grayson’s already stepping over the body, eyes darting to find –

Alastair’s still fighting. There’s blood running down one side of his face and some improvised weapon in his hand – one of the Vampire’s arms is hanging uselessly against its body, awkwardly curled to protect its injury – but the only detail he’s able to focus on is the fact that he’s _still human_.

Still here, and still human.

The Vampire snaps its jaws particularly close to Alastair’s neck and Grayson doesn’t think, just runs towards the two, using his momentum to bury his blade in the creature’s back.

Alastair’s eyes are wide when he looks at him over the head of his dying attacker. “You …”

Grayson yanks his weapon free, letting the body between them drop. He’s put a few cautious steps between them when Alastair slumps, nearly as heavily as the corpse, to sit against the wall.

“You nearly had me with that one, you realise.”

“Did I.”

Alastair looks up at him, and something about that sight in particular is what finally does it, settles the weight of his exhaustion on him like a mantle, and he too sinks to the floor. What a sight the two of them must make, sitting as they are, bloodied and bruised, corpses and debris in their midst. It’s a miracle neither their brawling or the screams of the Vampires drew any attention. He’s in no mood to question their luck, however, only thankful for it.

Alastair’s still watching him. A cut above his eyebrow is responsible for the trail of blood down his face, two neat, short lines: he wasn’t so lucky to avoid the Vampire’s claws, Grayson notes. None of the wounds are actively bleeding, though. How fortunate for him.

“So,” Grayson starts, “what happens now?”

“I haven’t the faintest.” Alastair’s voice sounds different to its usual tone, strangely lilting. On anyone else Grayson might call it verging on hysterical.

The words, and the sound of them, are enough to draw a derisive noise from him.

“Spare me. A man such as yourself? I may not understand the extent of your machinations but I’m certain you have a plan –”

“A plan?” Alastair laughs. “My _plan_ began and ended when I walked with you through those doors.”

Grayson frowns. “Explain.”

“He was supposed to _be here_ , Grayson, still in the process of securing his shipment. I meant to deliver you right to his doorstep; you’d get the chance to take whatever it was you wanted from him, and in the confusion of your arrival I would –”

“Run,” he finishes for him, voice low.

“Slip away,” Alastair corrects. “You’d have never seen me again. Something must have changed, some shift in his timetable …”

He says this last part as though speaking to himself, looking off somewhere to the side, such an intense expression of concentration on his face that Grayson thinks he’s lost him. He feels, in that moment, a particularly bitter sense of vindication fill him, the knowledge that, for all that the form might be different, he was still correct: Alastair had meant to deceive him after all.

“And your first thought on seeing an empty warehouse was to flee?”

He sounds only slightly calmer than he feels. The question draws Alastair’s attention back regardless, a deep frown creasing his face.

“Can you really not understand why?”

Grayson gives him no answer.

Alastair shakes his head at that. “I _know_ you. Can you honestly say you’d have believed me had I explained? Would you have even let me _try_?” He scoffs. “Of course I ran.”

“Right into a pair of Vampires. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

Alastair lets out an expansive sigh. “You might as well end me now if you still doubt me. Go on. I won’t fight you.”

He tosses his makeshift weapon out of reach and spreads his arms, leaning further back against the wall. And that’s it: he doesn’t move, does nothing but wait, watching Grayson and blinking slowly. Grayson shifts his grip on his blade, clenching and unclenching his hand, and even as one part of him is running down the list of ways this could be another plot, another is resoundingly, undeniably certain – Alastair is serious. He could walk over there, run his blade through his heart, and he wouldn’t lift a finger to defend himself.

The realisation makes his stomach churn.

Movements slow and obvious, he slides the blade back into its sheath. Alastair’s expression doesn’t change, but he lowers his arms.

Silence stretches between them for a few long moments.

“I should thank you for your help with this one,” Alastair says eventually, nudging the body of the nearest Vampire with his foot.

Grayson eyes the creature splayed on the ground between them. There’s much that he could say in response, but all that makes it out is, “You didn’t transform.”

“For one fledgling Vampire?” Alastair scoffs. “He wasn’t worth the clothes it’d ruin in the change.”

Considering he’d needed help Grayson thinks perhaps a few torn garments would have been an acceptable loss, but he decides to keep that to himself. While he’s caught in this strangely self-aware mood he’s able to admit to himself: the reaction he would have likely had on seeing Alastair in his Lycan form wouldn’t have been a good one.

Perhaps there was more in his mind than simply preserving his modesty.

Grayson reaches up, probing gently at the edges of the wound on his nose. Nothing’s bleeding, and while it still stings to touch he’s not at all concerned by the pain. With a quick clean to wash the dried blood away he’ll be good as new, or near enough. He can live with the raised eyebrows his appearance will surely gain him; for all that he aches elsewhere dipping into his vial for something as little as this feels wasteful.

Slowly he gets to his feet.

“I don’t suppose you’d have any notion as to where he could have gone.”

Alastair shakes his head in silence.

Grayson buries the sigh that threatens to escape him. Not that he truly expected anything else. It doesn’t stop the frustration from running as deep as does, but if the past has taught him anything it’s that feelings such as these make the perfect whetstone against which to hone his determination. No better time to start than now, he thinks, turning to look at the furthest corpse; no better place than here.

He crouches beside it, begins rifling through its clothing, aware of how in the background Alastair is straightening up.

“You’re still going after him.”

“What else is there,” Grayson plainly states.

No matter how thoroughly he searches its pockets nothing reveals itself, not a single scrap of paper or hint to be found. With a huff he stands, ready to move onto the next one, only to come to an immediate stop at the sight that greets him. Alastair is already leaning over the body, picking through its clothes with a frown on his face. He’s seemingly so deep in concentration he doesn’t notice the way Grayson’s staring at him.

“What are you doing?” he finally gets out.

Alastair doesn’t even look up. “What it looks like, I expect.”

Grayson opens his mouth but finds he’s entirely lost for words. _What it looks like_ is exactly what he wants it not to be, but Alastair seems intent on seeing his current task through. If this is what he’s prioritising over leaving, then …

God, he doesn’t mean to …?

Grayson clenches his fists. “Just because I won’t kill you doesn’t mean I want anything to do with you.”

Alastair finally lets the body settle, brushing off his hands and fixing him with a dubious look. “Do you honestly believe you’ll fare better on your own? Not just in finding Hastings, but _getting_ to him? Taking what you want from him?”

“I’m certain I don’t need _your_ help.”

“Don’t forget the reality of your predicament here, Grayson. No sanction, no weapons beyond what you wear, little money –”

“No thanks to _you_.”

“– not even any rebel friends to offer assistance –”

“Why won’t you just _leave_?” Grayson finally bursts out. His voice seems to echo it’s so loud to his own ears, but he just _doesn’t care_. “Where’s your stake in any of this? Hastings may not be here to further your distraction but that shouldn’t have changed your plan to run any.” He sarcastically holds up a hand before the other man can cut in: “No, forgive me – _slip away_.”

Alastair’s face, only moments ago surprised at his outburst, goes stony. Grayson can see the tension in him from where he’s standing, from the way his own hands are clenched to how he’s planted himself to the floor. His long silence says enough by itself that Grayson thinks he’s not going to get an answer, but eventually Alastair shifts, crosses his arms over his chest. He raises his chin and it’s the picture of defiance.

“Call it a professional courtesy. Or penance, if you’d prefer it. One last good act, one former knight to another.”

Grayson scoffs at that, shaking his head and muttering _penance_ to himself under his breath. In what world could he ever believe such a claim? Alastair ought to know better; even were he not naturally suspicious of such an idea, the rest is equally unbelievable. It’s a manipulation he’s used before, even, one of the tactics he tried to get himself on the ship, and see how that turned out? Letting him get away with it twice wouldn’t just be irresponsible, it’d be stupid, too.

Alastair looks as if he knows every thought that’s going through Grayson’s head, though, and is all too ready to counter them.

“I have resources that would be invaluable to you. If nothing else you’ll have someone at your back; even one you don’t like is better than none. You’re a proud man.” His expression is intent. “Don’t let it get you killed.”

He wants to groan, wants to press the heel of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars and then keep pressing; throwing himself into the river might be a step too far but at least the water would cool him off. Pacing will have to do instead. Things were so much easier when rebels were treasonous and Knight Commanders weren’t secret Half-Breeds. Now there’s so much in his head, so many double meanings every word and action can hold he can barely hope to decipher any of it, and his once reliable instinct feels drowned beneath his uncertainty. Believing Alastair wants anything other than to find a way to knife him in the back is a hard ask. But then, he’s already admitted to himself that he can’t see Alastair as the omniscient villain, hasn’t he? That he could set the wheels in motion this far – and going further, even – without any of it coming apart defies every sort of logic imaginable.

… Assuming it hasn’t _already_ come apart, and all this is an effort to salvage something …

He forces himself to stop, turns on Alastair. “Why should I _trust_ you?”

He’s sure he sounds miserable. He’s beyond caring.

Alastair simply holds his arms out, taking up once again the pose he’d struck on the floor. Grayson understands the shorthand immediately: trust him, or kill him. It’s a ridiculous ultimatum, and an unfair one besides, but then, this entire scenario has been bizarre from the start, has it not? Perhaps this is simply the next link in the chain. If Alastair won’t leave, and Grayson won’t kill him, what other options do they have?

“… Fine.”

He sees nothing of Alastair’s reaction beyond the way he dips his head, as he turns to straighten his own clothes and rifle through the mess of items they’d knocked to the floor in their earlier scuffle. He doesn’t expect there to be anything of use, and that’s exactly the case, but it gives both his mind and his hands something to distract themselves with as he attempts to figure out his next step. That’s how it should go in theory, at least: he still finds he’s half paying attention to whatever it is Alastair’s doing in the background. The shifting sounds and scrape of metal on stone makes him think it’s much the same as what he’s doing.

“Pass me your other one.”

The interruption makes him frown. “Sorry?”

He looks over and finds Alastair already facing him, arm outstretched. In his hand is Grayson’s blade, the one he’d dropped what feels like forever ago now. He’s offering it out hilt first, fingers curled carefully around the edge, and the sight pulls him up short immediately.

Alastair seems to take no notice of his hesitation, tipping the blade towards him.

“Pass me the other one,” he says again.

Grayson doesn’t move. The sight of Alastair with that weapon sets ice running through his blood, and not just from the threat of violence it presents. So much of this encounter has bled echoes of the ones that came before that he half expects to blink and find himself back in the United India House, or down below in Nikola’s lab, and it leaves him uneasy. Superstition is not in his nature, but the number of opportunities being presented to him to rectify the decision he made back then are starting to add up. He can’t pretend he doesn’t notice.

Something of his current state must show on his face, for Alastair’s own expression hardens, and he takes a step closer, raising his hand.

“If we’re in this it’s as equals. No more threats, no more keeping watch, no bonds or chains or cages. _Equals_.”

And if he’s still unwilling to kill him, all Grayson can do is trust him.

He reaches for the sheath of his other blade, removes the entire thing and offers it out. He understands the importance of having a weapon of one’s own, especially after being denied one for so long, but why –

His question is answered as he takes the blade Alastair is offering him. The design is immediately recognisable, as familiar to him as his very hands – it’s his own blade, of course, how could it not be? Which means what he just handed over was Alastair’s, carried by Grayson through the streets and slums of London and Liverpool, across the ocean to the New World, and finally returned to him entirely without ceremony.

… He knows, surely? Otherwise why ask? Grayson watches for a hint of anything, but beyond the care he takes strapping the sheath to himself there’s nothing close to reverence in his movements.

“We should leave,” Grayson says, dragging himself back into the present, “before our luck finally decides to change.”

“Your command,” Alastair replies, and starts moving for the door.

“Wait, Alastair – see if you can find some water.”

Alastair turns back to him, expectant. Grayson gestures at the both of them.

“Unless you’d rather be arrested we should avoid looking like we murdered someone.”

Alastair reaches up to touch the blood on his face, tracing the run of it on Grayson’s with his eyes.

“Come now, Grayson,” he calls as he walks away, “we murdered two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details of [Alastair's](https://imgur.com/BxfsBHc) and [Grayson's](https://imgur.com/34aDmX1) [blades](https://imgur.com/1ta9xFq), taken from the Blackwater Archives artbook.
> 
> I'm the kind of dope who hangs on to everything in games, who won't sell even the most useless of accessories because it might hold some sentimental value. So you can bet if a character has an Important Item associated with them I'm gonna find a way to incorporate it. Which is why (beyond the obvious) Grayson still has his and Alastair's Blackwater vials, and why he held onto Alastair's blade for this long. From the moment he picks it up in chapter one it's all to give it back to him here. (What's that, you say? Giving up important items can be a sign of character development and growth? Nonsense! Keep everything! Sentimentality reigns supreme!) (... not really, I just can't help myself, I'm sorry)


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter first posted 26 February 2019.

That they make it back to the _Cosmopolitan_ with no more than a few concerned glances is miraculous, even considering their precaution of cleaning off the evidence. Grayson’s jaw and nose had felt tender under his fingers as he’d washed the blood away, though thankfully his ministrations hadn’t sent any more running down his face. He’d be in for some bruising, of that much he’d been certain. By contrast Alastair’s face had been unmarred beneath the bloodstains, because of course it was, injuries inflicted by both Grayson’s hand and the Vampire’s already faded; only when he’d looked closely had he been able to see the fine lines above his eyebrow from where he’d caught claws. Likely those scars would disappear, too, in time.

He’d had a harder time getting the blood out of his scruff than Grayson, which had at least amused him.

It had been the hotel proprietor who’d shown the most concern, though not in the way he’d expected, coming around from behind his counter at their approach and saying, “Good lord, Mr Slate, are you – what happened?”

“It seems your kinsmen are willing to attack a man based on nothing but his accent,” Alastair had said before Grayson could even get a word out, hustling him along towards the stairs.

“Not all of us, I assure you!” the man had called after them. “We’re very glad to have your patronage!”

Grayson had thrown a wave of thanks over his shoulder, but anything beyond that had been lost as they’d moved beyond the sight of everyone but each other.

Safely within the walls of their room Alastair had given him a nod then ducked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him without a word. For once Grayson’s unspent energy hadn’t demanded him to pace, leaving him abuzz with it. In the end all he’d been able to do was settle down on his bed and wait.

That’s where he finds himself an uncertain amount of time later, pulled back into the present by the sound of a door opening, and he turns to see Alastair emerging from the bathroom. Something catches in his throat at the sight that greets him. Alastair looks – like himself, naturally, but wilder somehow, despite having shaved away the beard that’d grown in. Perhaps it’s his hair, worn in the style he’s fond of but still longer than normal; it seems he too had taken care not to end up with a bald spot.

“That bad, is it?” Alastair asks, running one hand along his jaw.

Grayson frowns, at himself more than anything. He hadn’t realised how intently he’d been staring.

“You nearly look respectable,” he says, finally.

Alastair laughs at that, soft and rueful. He crosses the room slowly to sit upon the edge of his own bed, eyes focused on the floor as his face turns thoughtful. Grayson can’t help but notice the way his hand lingers on the hilt of his blade, almost unconsciously so. After having been without it for so long perhaps he’s unused to its presence.

“We should consider keeping out of sight for the rest of the day.”

Grayson cocks his head to the side. “You believe Hastings could have more agents in the city?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he says, “though whether they’d be men or more Half-Breeds I can’t say.”

“Should’ve kept one of them alive. They might’ve known something.”

Alastair raises an eyebrow at that. “They were little more than thralls to his will. I’d find it hard to imagine them being able to speak at all, let alone tell you anything of value.”

Though he’s reluctant to admit it Grayson knows he’s right. It doesn’t stop him from wishing events had played out differently, however. His regrets have been a constant companion on his journey thus far, in one form or another, and it seems as though that’s unlikely to change any time soon.

“So, we sit around and wait,” Grayson says. He hears the bitterness in his own voice and can’t bring himself to care.

“Until morning, yes, if you can stomach it. We’ve a defensible position here; should anything come for us they’d be bound by the collateral we’re surrounded by.”

He stares. “They’re _civilians_ , Alastair.”

“Don’t be naïve. Failing to see their strategic worth is as much a danger to them as it is us. Our enemies are the ones that would see them come to harm.”

Momentarily speechless, Grayson can only shake his head in disgust.

With all his talk of equality he expects Alastair to embrace his newfound freedom a little more readily, but the man seems keen to remain within their room, so quiet that he can almost imagine he’s alone. Grayson’s ravenous by the time the dinner service rolls around, both from missing lunch and the exertion of the day; he doesn’t quite down as much as Alastair had that morning, but it’s a near thing. He dines alone, though, only passing Alastair on the stairs as the man descends for his own meal.

Every minute he spends by himself in their room feels as though it’s on tenterhooks, uncertain that Alastair will return despite both their words. When he finally slips back inside some time later Grayson feels a weight lift from him in a way he’d prefer not to think about.

“I’ll take first watch,” he says firmly, and Alastair shrugs.

“If you wish.”

It’s one of the longest nights he’s ever sat through, nothing but the soft rhythm of Alastair’s breathing and the occasional sound of life from the other guests. When Alastair stirs to take his turn Grayson’s all too happy for him to have it, settling onto his side and into sleep.

He thinks he dreams, though he can’t entirely be sure. The sole impression he gets is a rocking sensation, as if he were back aboard the _Etruria_ , and then there’s pressure against his shoulder and he’s reaching for the hand without even thinking.

“Easy.”

It’s Alastair’s voice, calm and close to his ear. He blinks and the room comes into view, including Alastair, straightening up above him. He somehow manages to look rested despite having just come off literally hours of watch, and Grayson groans quietly and scrubs at his eyes.

“Quiet night, nothing to report,” he says as Grayson’s sitting up. “If we hurry we can still make the breakfast service.”

They do, barely. The staff are happy to see them again so soon, and off in one corner he spots the group of young men they’d encountered the day before, watching them with eyes as curious as they are wary.

God, had that only been yesterday? It feels as if a lifetime could have passed between now and then.

When they’re finished Alastair leads him out onto the street.

“Care to enlighten me?” Grayson asks as they walk.

“My first attempt to solidify your trust,” Alastair replies. “I promised you resources, did I not?”

“You mean that wasn’t just the lie of a desperate man?”

“I do so enjoy our back and forths, Grayson.”

That gets a gruff laugh out of him. The funny thing is that he’s actually amused; his insults feel more like habit than anything else in that moment, none of their usual venom behind them. He refuses to believe it’s a sign of him turning around on Alastair, but … it must mean something, surely.

The path they end up travelling is similar to the one they took yesterday, enough that he recognises some of the buildings they pass. The sun is making a valiant effort against winter’s sting, so much so that he could stop and stand in the sunlight long enough and almost pretend he’s warm. Alastair dictates the pace, though it’s more sedate than he expects. With anyone else it could be a casual stroll between two friends.

It’s a bizarre thought.

“This is it,” Alastair says not long after.

He comes to a stop across from a grand building on the street opposite. While it’s not readily apparent what purpose the building serves it’s clear it’s important.

“Whatever they say in there, just play along.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only if things go poorly.”

Grayson wants to roll his eyes at that, but Alastair is already crossing the street and he has to hurry after him to catch up. The door is held open for them as they approach, the man responsible dipping his head to them as they step inside, and Grayson takes one look around and immediately feels underdressed. Virtually every man he sees, whether they’re sitting behind or in front of one of the many desks that fill the room, is dressed immaculately; the few women he sees are similarly fashionable, the rich colours of their frocks out of place among the stark tones that surround them.

The layout of the room, the snippets of conversation he overhears as they creep further in – this place, it’s …

“A bank?” Grayson muses.

Even before the words are out of his mouth a young man, in the process of passing them by, glances their way and comes to a sudden stop.

“Mr Knight? Is that you?” he asks, eyes wide.

“Samuel. How good to see you.”

Grayson looks between the two of them, certain that his bewilderment is showing and unable to do anything about it. The young man hardly seems to notice, however, only having eyes for Alastair.

“I hadn’t expected to see you again for some time. You’re here on business, I assume? Of course you are – please, let me take you through.”

Samuel turns and begins leading them deeper into the bank. Alastair follows along unhurriedly and Grayson trails behind him, still baffled, mouthing _Mr Knight_ to himself. The conversation continues:

“Nothing so thorough as my earlier visits, I’m afraid,” Alastair says. “A rearranging of funds more than anything, and a chance to show off your fine establishment to my business partner here.”

“Arthur Slate,” Grayson says by rote, and reaches to shake the man’s hand when he offers it.

“A pleasure,” Samuel replies, before looking back to Alastair. “I hadn’t thought I’d ever meet any of your business partners.”

“Circumstances changed somewhat unexpectedly.”

It’s the only answer Alastair gives, and Samuel seems aware enough to not go digging after more, only nods and continues onward.

“You’ll have to wait here I’m afraid, Mr Slate,” Samuel says as they come to a set of doors deep within the building. “Even as a guest and business partner of Mr Knight, only our account holders may come beyond this point.”

Grayson looks between them, catching the intent look Alastair levels him with from behind Samuel’s back. All he can do is plaster on a smile and hope it doesn’t look too forced.

“I’ll be outside.”

At least it gives him a better opportunity to take in this so-called Bank of New York, though the relative quiet and his lingering, out of place appearance seems to leave those present uncomfortable, and so he finds himself outside faster than he intended. He stands in the spot that best keeps him out of the wind’s chill and watches the flow of people passing by. It’s mindless enough that he can lose himself in it, only emerging when someone leaves the building behind him. The first few times it’s a false alarm, but the next he hears the deliberate sound of someone coming to a stop beside him. He turns to see Alastair looking out over the street just as he’d been a moment ago, filing what appears to be a ledger into one of his inside coat pockets.

He lets the silence between them last a few seconds more. Then he asks, “Mr _Knight_?”

Alastair sighs.

“And you had the audacity to give the rebels grief over _their_ false names.”

“Had I known I’d have a witness at this point perhaps I’d have chosen something subtler,” Alastair says, voice curt. “Since you were so concerned earlier, this can be your responsibility.”

He presses something into Grayson’s chest, only removing his hand when Grayson’s reached up to take it. It’s an envelope, thick paper with no markings. He opens it carefully.

He’s glad he did. Inside is more money than he’s seen in a long, long time, neat folds of bills. Then he looks closer, and sees behind the American dollars a near equivalent number of British pounds.

“God above, Alastair, how …”

He trails off, looking up at the street. The familiar path they took here suddenly seems far more important. He turns to Alastair to find himself already being watched.

“This was to be your first stop had things gone differently yesterday,” he says slowly.

Alastair’s silence is all the answer he needs.

“Dare I ask how you amassed such a fortune?”

“It might be best that you didn’t,” he says, “though it’s nothing as sinister as you’re likely imagining.”

Grayson doesn’t even bother trying to hide his suspicion, but it’s either accept the unknown origin of the money or toss it to the streets, and the practical part of him would never allow such a thing. Even ill-gotten gains could be used for some good, surely? And so he places the envelope securely into the inside pocket of his coat, feels its weight settle there over his heart, and gives Alastair a nod.

“Now that we’ve more money than we could possibly hope to spend,” Grayson starts, heavily sardonic, “what’s next?”

“What else is there but Hastings?” Alastair cocks his head. “He wouldn’t have allowed that shipment to travel unaccompanied. All that’s left to establish is when he departed the city, and where he’s headed.”

Grayson nearly scoffs at him. “You speak as though it’s some simple task.”

“Forgive me, are you some _other_ man named Grayson? Burning down Hastings’ warehouse and infiltrating the United India House barely made you blink, but _this_ is too difficult for you?”

“As you were so eager to point out my prospects here are rather more different than they were in London,” he says, voice low. “If you’re so full of confidence perhaps you should take the lead?”

“Very well.”

And Alastair turns and walks away.

Grayson stands there for a moment, dumbfounded, before heading after him. Alastair moves with purpose now, cutting through the crowd with intent; Grayson follows along like some frowning shadow, far enough behind that he can let his anger simmer in safety. It’s all well and good for Alastair, with no real stakes in this fight, to treat the matter with such abandon. For Grayson it’s not so easy.

He’d been willing to throw himself into the fire in the past. Now, with the burns to show for it, he’d like to think he’s a little more prudent than before. Even if only a little.

His curiosity, treacherous as it is, demands him to ask their destination, or if not that, at least some hint of Alastair’s intentions. He refuses to give either the satisfaction of asking.

It’s not long before he recognises they’re heading in the direction of the pier from yesterday. So much for keeping out of sight, Grayson thinks to himself. They don’t quite make it all the way there, however, Alastair’s pace slowing as his attention shifts towards the buildings nearer to them.

There’s been nothing but silence between them until this point. Alastair finally takes pity on him and his pride and says, “Those fledglings might have been unable to provide information, but there are others worth asking.”

Frowning, Grayson looks around. “The sailors? The dock workers? Hastings would silence anyone with any sort of involvement.”

“That many bodies wouldn’t go unnoticed. Which would suggest another kind of silencing.” Alastair gives a pointed nod to Grayson’s coat pocket. “You know better than anyone: give a man the right incentive and he’ll tell you everything you want to hear.”

“Regardless of its veracity,” Grayson says, shaking his head. “Enjoy your attempts at bribery. Meet me back at the hotel when you’re finished.”

He gets one good look at the expression that crosses Alastair’s face – something like shock, hastily buried – before he turns and walks away. He’s likely not far off from how Alastair feels. With every step his self-directed disbelief grows, instinct screaming at him to _turn around, follow him, it’s not too late_. He can feel it like a hook lodged in his chest, doing its best to drag him back in Alastair’s direction, but he won’t allow himself to turn around, and he can’t just stand there watching Alastair ply strangers with money and drink, hoping he’ll somehow discover something useful. It just doesn’t sit right, in more ways than he’s able to articulate.

His path through the streets is winding and mindless, dictated as much by the flow of people around him as by his own thoughts. He considers, for a moment, heading back to South Street Seaport, covering those Alastair might not be able to reach on the off chance his plan has some logic to it; just as quickly he decides against it. If he’s so confident of his own reasoning let him make his discoveries without any outside help.

Eventually he finds himself in a truly bustling part of the city, the roads teeming with the late morning rush. With as many people around moving as quickly as they are his ponderous pace only puts him in the way of everyone else, so he retreats to the quietest spot he’s able and watches the masses go by.

It’s not _literally_ the quietest spot, as he quickly discovers, the piercing cry of a young boy reaching his ears. Selling newspapers, by the look – and sound – of things.

“Any word on those recent disappearances?” Grayson asks, recalling the headline he’d briefly seen in the money changer’s shop.

The boy gives him a filthy look. “Like I’d just tell you! Buy a paper if you want the news!”

Even the smallest denomination he’s able to dig out makes the child’s eyes grow wide; he grabs the money eagerly and runs, all but shoving the stack of papers into Grayson’s arms as he bolts. With any luck he’ll get some good use out of it, he thinks as he watches him vanish into the crowd. He takes one of the papers and sets the rest on the ground.

There’s nothing of value in any of the pages, no articles on any further disappearances, no new details on any earlier incidents. He tries not to be disappointed, not when it was only ever a long shot, but it’s easier said than done. There had been something else, though, hadn’t there? Some other place or event for him to look into?

Returning to the hotel already feels like a surrender, but there’s little more he can do, lacking in direction as he is. No matter how many detours he takes or how slowly he walks there’s only one outcome waiting for him, and soon enough the _Cosmopolitan_ comes into sight.

The proprietor is once again behind the counter, and smiles widely upon seeing him. “Mr Slate, good afternoon! Good to see you so out and about after yesterday’s unpleasantness.”

Grayson pauses on his way past, moves closer. “Forgive me; I didn’t get your name.”

“Girard, sir.”

“Girard. My colleague and I may require our room for a few days more. Would such a thing be possible?”

He’s already sorting through their original reserve of money, removing what seems an appropriate amount. When he looks up he catches Girard eying the notes in his hand, before the man meets his gaze.

“For guests as agreeable as the two of you? We’d be delighted.”

Grayson nods his thanks and passes the money over, and Girard makes a note in his ledger. Nothing more to be said, he’s on his way when he hears the man call out to him, gesturing him back to the counter.

“I’m not normally one for peddling gossip, but I thought perhaps I should warn you,” Girard leans in close, his voice quiet, “it might be best for you and Mr O’Donnell not to venture out past sundown.”

Alastair’s words from earlier echo in his head. Grayson straightens up. “Why is that?”

“As I said, I’m not fond of gossip – I believe you’ve met the three young gentlemen from Vermont? They made me aware of a supposedly vicious animal attack sometime during the night. According to them the creature’s still on the loose. There’s no word yet on the victim.”

He thinks, suddenly and clearly: the street with the brownstone buildings. The women with their stories of a child bitten. And Alastair’s hand on his arm, pulling him to a stop.

“But you’re not one for gossip,” Grayson says, throat dry.

Girard’s expression turns worried. “The truth is I’ve heard … things, recently. Things I can’t quite explain. I don’t know that I’d want to even if I could. Under such circumstances I’d rather be sure than sorry.”

Grayson nods again, thanking him properly this time. He feels as though he’s moving through water as he makes his way through the hotel, thoughts clouding his mind.

Somehow, he’s found himself with yet another complication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Bank of New York was founded by a group that included, among others, Alexander Hamilton! And that's about as close as I get to a reference, lmao.
> 
> \- The name Girard is another detail pulled from [this](https://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/11/realestate/11scapes.html) article on the Cosmopolitan Hotel - the building was at one point called the Girard House.
> 
> \- Mr Knight joins the ranks of Arthur Slate and Weylin O'Donnell, because I can't get enough of silly, referential aliases!
> 
> \- So the Vampires are my own headcanon mishmash of characteristics from pop culture and what info I could glean from the source (and supplemental) material because we LITERALLY SEE LIKE THREE VAMPIRES THE ENTIRE COURSE OF THE GAME GODDAMNIT HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO WORK LIKE THIS


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter this time round! My apologies. I split it off from the rest partly for pacing reasons, but partly to also buy myself some time - it seems weekly updates were too ambitious after all, as I'm rapidly running out of my reserve of chapters. I'm in the middle of a productive spell so I'm gonna do my darnedest to complete the section I'm on, but it's highly unlikely I'm going to actually finish before the updates catch up, so a temporary hiatus is looking to be on the horizon. If that's unfortunately the case, let me be clear now: _**I'm absolutely going to finish this fic**_. I'd never forgive myself if I didn't. It just ... might take a little longer than I would've liked. :(
> 
> I also added Alastair/Grayson to the pairing tag (let's face it, it was about time) and updated the additional tags section. 'Friends to Enemies' is there for the beginning (and context of the game), and 'Enemies to Friends to Lovers' because even though this will _remain a pre-slash fic_ that's basically the intended course of their relationship and this is the best place I can put it. I know you guys aren't the tag police, and you probably wouldn't hold it against me, but, y'know. Transparency and all that.
> 
> Chapter first posted 5 March 2019.

Alastair returns later in the day, far later than he’s expecting. He sweeps into the room with a familiar confidence, a looseness to his limbs that Grayson can only ascribe to the alcohol he can smell on him, even from where he’s sitting across the room. There’s clarity in his eyes, however, and he’s able to focus on him without any extra effort.

Perhaps he simply didn’t drink that much. Or perhaps his Lycan metabolism is better even than he imagined.

“It was close, Gray,” he says, pacing before him. “Less than a week between his arrival and our own. The ones I spoke with weren’t entirely clear on details, but he took his time transporting his shipment. He can’t be far ahead.”

Alastair looks triumphant, comes to a stop directly before him. It’s clear he’s expecting some kind of a reaction, though exactly what Grayson doesn’t know. All he can do in the end is look at him.

Alastair frowns. “You’ve been drinking.”

He has, in fact, been drinking. Not as much as he could have, not so much that he’s taken leave of his senses or is on the verge of expelling what’s left in his stomach, but there’s a floaty sort of feeling inside his head that’s not entirely unpleasant. The bartender had given him a look as he’d sidled up to the counter, but kept his comments to himself. He’d asked for absinthe out of habit, mostly; with nothing of the sort available he’d requested whatever that was strongest.

He doesn’t know what it was, but he got what he paid for.

“We may have another problem,” Grayson says in answer.

Alastair watches him intently. When he continues to say nothing, Grayson goes on:

“It seems as though there’s a rogue Lycan roaming the streets. It may have already attacked someone.”

For a few long moments there’s only silence. Even Alastair’s face is closed off, a blank mask hiding his every thought. Eventually he sits down on his own bed, the motion careful despite how deeply distracted he appears.

“I sincerely hope this isn’t you accusing _me_ ,” he finally says.

Grayson can’t pretend he hasn’t considered the possibility, on his own, liquor leaving his thoughts slippery. But …

“For the first time in a very long while, I’m not.”

“Then what is your purpose in bringing this up?”

Grayson stares. “My _purpose_?”

“It’s nothing but a distraction. Pursuing this won’t bring you any closer to Hastings – you’ll only be set back further. Is that what you want?”

“If you honestly think you can keep me from getting involved in this you don’t know me as well as you like to claim.”

“Assuming this isn’t some over exaggeration, it’s _not our place_ ,” Alastair grits out. “If there’s a resident Elder they’ll know how to handle the matter. If not –”

“Then you’re condemning them to be hunted by men like those three from the other day. Like sport. To say nothing of the danger to potentially countless others in the meantime.”

Alastair’s answer is in the way he stares him down, tension in every line of his body. The airy feeling that had carried Grayson along is certainly gone, now; he feels almost uncomfortably present in his own skin, rooted heavily where he sits.

Slowly, Grayson begins, “You said once you had to look to your own kind above all else.”

“Don’t speak of things you can’t possibly understand.”

Alastair’s voice is a snarl, one hand curled into a fist against his knee. Grayson raises his own hands, holds them up placatingly. He doesn’t move until Alastair releases a shaky breath, and some of the anger seems gone from his eyes.

“Perhaps you’re right. There is one thing I understand clearly: I can’t do this without your help.”

The look Alastair lays on him is blatant, and Grayson doesn’t even pretend to misinterpret it. If it feels like emotional manipulation it’s probably because it is, but it doesn’t make what he’s saying any less true. He’s no fool; if there’s the slightest chance he can have someone watching his back as he attempts this, he’ll take it.

All it comes down to is whether Alastair is willing to indulge him.

He watches the man in question raise a hand to his brow, thumb and fingers pressing into the temples on either side. It’s odd, what such a position does to his appearance. Beneath the shadow of his hand Grayson can only just see that his eyes are closed, and it leaves Alastair looking not just tired, but old, too, in a way he’s never seen him look.

“What makes you think it’s a Lycan that’s responsible?”

“From your words just now it couldn’t be Hastings himself. The two he left behind at the warehouse make a certain kind of sense – a safeguard to deal with anyone looking into places they shouldn’t.” Alastair misses the intent look Grayson levels at him – likely for the best. He goes on, “But there were only two crates. Why would he set a third loose in the city itself? What would he gain?”

The reasoning seems sound, at least to his mind. He’d worked through much of it before Alastair’s return, pairing it with what he’d learned from Girard, and he thinks it makes a solid argument. Having said all there is he lets the silence take its place, watches and hopes his words are being considered. It feels like an age since either of them moved, and the quiet only makes it worse, as though they’ve both been caught in some spell. Unwilling to break it himself, he can only sit and wait.

Eventually Alastair gives the most put-upon sigh he’s ever heard from him. “Have you anything more than gossip to go on?”

“No, but why should that stop us?”

Alastair groans at that, finally pulling his hand away so he can shake his head at the heavens. Grayson tries not to let his amusement show.

“What we have,” he says, shifting forward on the bed, solemnity returning, “is word from those women about a bitten child, and a report from the proprietor of another attack during the night. It seems likely they’re from one of the nearby areas from the way we’ve encountered both these stories. But the victims – there’s no sense to it.”

His thoughts trail off as he sits there attempting to figure out the best way to word them. How, exactly, does he ask why a Half-Breed would act in such a manner, when all his years of hunting them suggests it’s perfectly understandable? How does he try to apply human logic to beings he’s always seen as monsters? Moreover, how does he ask any of this of Alastair, a Half-Breed himself, despite his conflicted upbringing?

Alastair has been similarly silent throughout his internal debate, a frown of concentration on his face, his eyes focused on the floor.

“It could be the child,” he says, voice quiet.

Grayson blinks. “What?”

“You’re speaking of this as though it’s a single person behind both acts. Which is possible, certainly, but … if the child was turned, it could explain the suddenness of this second attack.”

Grayson opens his mouth only to find his words have deserted him. Alastair’s focus has only sharpened, meanwhile, and he’s risen to his feet, resuming a slower pace of the floor this time.

“They’d be highly susceptible to losing control at such a young age. The moon will be full in a few days’ time; that holds its own sway. Soldier Lycans are far more at the mercy of their instincts, even with years of experience. One so newly turned …”

Grayson finally manages to swallow past the dryness in his throat to ask, “Why turn a child?”

“At best, it was accidentally done.”

The way Alastair looks at him then is enough to dissuade him from asking what the worst could be. His imagination hasn’t deserted him yet, not even after all these years; that whatever he’s capable of thinking up has the possibility of being true is enough to leave him not just sickened, but furious as well.

“Even more reason we can’t walk away from this,” he says, clenching his fists.

Alastair stops to cast a glance at him. He says nothing, but there’s something distant in his eyes that suggests he’d argue against that declaration if he thought he’d be successful.

“Whatever comes of this,” Alastair says, slow and clear, “on your head be it.”

Grayson nods, undaunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think it's ever mentioned in-game, but the Blackwater Archives artbook notes that the more animalistic type of Lycan, those turned via bites, are called 'soldiers', or part of the soldier class.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head I've been calling this the anime filler arc, because I'm nothing if not mean to myself. (It's not actually filler. There's no visit to a hot spring, for starters.)
> 
> Chapter first posted 12 March 2019.

The remaining hours of daylight they spend in planning and preparation, forming the skeleton of a plot, pairing what they each know of the city with a possible course of action. The reality of the situation quickly imposes itself upon them: the sheer size of the city will be their greatest enemy. There’s no guarantee the areas they’ve narrowed down fall within the Lycan’s reach; even if they do, the likelihood of it remaining there during a rampage is doubtful. Grayson finds himself hesitant on that second point, but Alastair seems confident – “The first traumatic change almost certainly leads to the second,” he says when asked – and Grayson decides he’s willing to concede to his expertise.

The fact that only a little more than a day ago they were literally at each other’s throats is a detail he tries not to pay much heed. To do so would give voice to all the doubts already creeping through his head, warning him of the stupidity of this idea and all that could go wrong, and it’s not a distraction he needs right now. Not when he’s already well aware of such things.

“You’ll need to take care.”

The comment comes sometime after they’ve settled on a plan, when the silence has long since fallen over them and they’re both in the midst of getting ready. It’s Alastair who’s spoken; Grayson turns to find himself being watched, and the other man gestures pointedly towards him.

“Should our target truly be a child you won’t be able to subdue them with your usual efficiency.”

Grayson pauses, hands hovering over the blade he’s only just finished strapping to his side. His holster is already in place even if the revolver that accompanies it still rests upon the bed, but it isn’t the gun that makes him hesitate. The images that fill his head in that moment are ones he very quickly sets aside; he already knows the regret that awaits him down that road should he follow it.

In the end he pulls his coat on, holsters his revolver, and heads downstairs with Alastair for dinner. His blade, still sheathed, is a heavy weight against his side.

He feels younger than he has in centuries that night, sneaking out of the hotel with Alastair close behind after the cover of darkness has well and truly descended. The streets are empty, for the most part, though he gets the feeling that’s more coincidence and timing than the typical way of things. The few people they do pass pay them no mind, bundled up and intent on reaching their destinations, and if Grayson had thought it cold before he’d been sorely mistaken. The frosty air feels like it’s doing its best to crawl down his throat whenever he breathes in, and the cold has already made itself acquainted with his clothes. Snow crunches beneath his every step and his breath clouds his sight with each exhale. It may not be the coldest he’s ever been in his life, but it’s probably close.

“It’s a shame we’ve no communicators,” Alastair says. His voice is low.

“Be glad we’re not lacking more than that.”

“I don’t doubt you could handle the extra challenge.”

Grayson clenches his fists. “Strange that I used to believe betrayal was the lowest you could sink. Now I know better. Clearly it’s treating a child’s life as sport.”

Alastair huffs. It’s a sound that could be amusement as easily as it could be insult.

“What’s a man to do? You’ve no one else around to leave you disappointed.”

Grayson grits his teeth at that, and chooses not to dignify his comments with a response.

Their patrol of the streets continues in silence. He’s not one to jump at shadows but the longer they walk without a hint of their quarry only ratchets his anticipation higher. It doesn’t help that the few stragglers they’d witnessed roaming around seem to have dropped off entirely.

Things are only getting harder to see between the darkness and the snow that’s started to fall. He almost doesn’t recognise it when they turn onto the street with the brownstone buildings; they loom at the edges of his vision, a pair of walls set to box them in. Were he the more fanciful type he might imagine them creeping ever closer any time he wasn’t looking, like something out of a nightmare, but if that’s a horror that exists in this world he’s yet to encounter it.

From the corner of his eye he spots a discarded piece of lumber, sticking up out of the snow beside a stairway like some strange marker. It’s about as long as his forearm, and has a decent heft to it when he tugs it free. How effective it’ll be against a raging Lycan is debatable, but between a stab or smacking them with a plank of wood, he knows which he’d rather. There’s nothing to do but hold it, and he catches Alastair watching him as he adjusts his grip to one more comfortable. There’s something inscrutable about his expression then, but it’s gone before he can make out any more.

A little way down the road and Alastair pauses by the edge of a building.

“Good hunting,” he says, and before Grayson’s eyes he pulls himself up and begins scaling the wall. It happens almost faster than he can process it, there one moment and scrambling out of sight in the next, but for those few brief seconds he finds he can’t look away. The last time he’d had the chance to witness this he’d been distracted – rightfully so – by both his injuries and betrayal, and so he hadn’t truly had the chance to take the sight in. There’s something about his movements that’s a step too close to animalistic to his liking, but it’s … fascinating is probably the kindest way he can put it.

Standing there, alone and in the dark with essentially a piece of wood to defend himself with, he thinks perhaps he ought to have been daunted before.

He keeps moving. It isn’t long before he’s well and truly left behind the last of the streets he recognises, though most everything looks different without the light of day to go by. Still, if he’s followed all the roads he thinks he has then this should be the place. It takes some manoeuvring but he eventually gets his blade free, makes a neat, quick cut down the outside length of his palm, and holds his fist out to let the blood drip freely.

He gets a glimpse of it, barely, blotches of red standing out vividly against the snow. Then he’s walking, and the trail is left behind as much as it keeps up with him.

There’s only so much he can bleed before he needs to make the wound worse than it’s worth, and he reaches that stage all too quickly. He throws a glare towards the nearest rooftop, hoping Alastair sees, but with no reply forthcoming there’s nothing he can do but walk and continue to eke out what he can.

He’s maybe halfway down the street when he hears it: the crunch of snow beneath feet that aren’t his, footfalls precise and heavier than any a human could be capable of. He turns, slowly, and there it is, emerging from a side street like a phantom, slowly solidifying against the falling snow. Like something out of a dream; a nightmare. Its focus is on the trail, giving him a few good seconds to evaluate – smaller than most he’s seen, more like a large, underfed dog – and then Grayson’s foot shifts and the Lycan’s head snaps towards him.

“Come on, then,” he growls, and sprints away.

The Lycan snarls. The sound of paws crushing snow reaches his ears but he’s too busy trying to keep his feet from going out from under him to pay it much attention. Whatever possessed him to go along with this, he regrets it now. Damn Alastair for making such a plan sound _reasonable_ , their _best course of action_ , and damn himself for agreeing to it!

There’s a flash, above and to his left, and Grayson whirls down the street that appears there mere seconds later. From the crash that follows moments behind he knows the Lycan is still on him, though he doesn’t dare look to confirm; he’s not sure he wants to see, and if he turns at the wrong second he might miss –

Another flash, to his right this time. He grits his teeth and takes the corner.

It’s fast for a gangly thing. With the way the snow is doing its best to send him head over heels he’s already at a disadvantage, but he can’t stop, not when the thunderous sound of its breathing is louder than his own. Not when he can all but feel its jaws snapping at his feet, and with every heartbeat he’s waiting for the thing to launch itself at him, but he makes the next turn, and the one after that, and still it’s giving chase.

He comes around the corner and just barely keeps from skidding to a stop. The end of the street is closed in, connected to another building by a wall he has no hope of climbing. He whirls around to face the entrance just as the Lycan comes hurtling into view; it pulls up far more gracefully, looming at the mouth of the street, jaws already set to something vicious, fangs exposed. It takes its time to approach and Grayson’s immediately certain it _knows_ he’s backed into a corner, the eyes locked on him as intelligent as they are hungry.

Grayson brings up his piece of lumber and does his best to circle it.

The head-on rush doesn’t surprise him at this point, but with nowhere to retreat to the Lycan is forced to keep far closer than he’s accustomed; full body tackles more frequently give way to aggressive swipes and lunges, and he feels the hot rush of its breath even through his clothes the closer it gets. His improvised weapon is starting to feel less like a deterrent and more like a stick, with all the effectiveness that entails. He bats away a paw that comes too close, plants his foot against its shoulder and shoves back as hard as he can. It buys him a few seconds of surprise and some space, though not much: crouched low to the ground it bares its teeth at him and charges again.

He slips around the attack easily enough. The Lycan recovers with surprising grace, turning relentlessly to face him, but Grayson’s back is to the street entrance now, and just the knowledge that he’s no longer so hemmed in leaves him standing taller, more confident –

There’s a _thump_ , the sound of something falling to the ground behind him, and his attention diverts just long enough that he can’t block the swing that comes at him, high across his chest and shoulder, no claws but so strong it knocks the air out of his lungs. It’s instinct that has him bring the lumber up, only just in time, as the full weight of the Lycan crashes into him and sends him to the ground.

Its jaws are closed tight around the piece of wood, body half over his and Grayson wonders distantly what will give out first: his lungs, or his ribcage. He’s pushing back as hard as it’s bearing down but he can already feel his arms shaking, the Lycan’s face creeping ever closer as his lungs scream for relief –

There’s a _roar_ from above him, so loud it cuts through the ringing in his ears, so loud it sends the Lycan’s head snapping up, assault forgotten. Still pinned, all Grayson can do is watch as its eyes dart over the street, ears twitching to every sound.

He thinks it’s a shadow at first, a trick played by his oxygen-starved mind, but then he feels a rush of air and the ground at his feet shakes with impact. As though everything is moving at half speed he looks up over the shoulder of the Half-Breed at the same time it’s turning round, and the sight that greets both of them, unfolding to stand at its full height, is that of an Elder Lycan.

The lesser one is already scrambling to a safer distance, an idea Grayson’s all too willing to emulate, pulling himself backwards across the ground until he’s out of their reach. Neither creature pays him any attention as he kneels there, catching his breath; the soldier is crouched low, a growl from deep in its throat filling the space between them all as it stares down the Elder. It looks entirely unperturbed, this second Half-Breed, looming above them both, its mouth open in a snarl. There’s something unspoken going on between the two, a battle of wills he’s never seen the like of. The soldier Lycan howls suddenly, shifting back as though to pounce, and the Elder brings a clawed hand up, ready to strike –

Grayson slams the lumber down on the smaller Lycan’s head.

The creature lets out a yelp, staggering as it turns to face him.

Grayson hits it again.

The Lycan goes down hard and stays there. He keeps a careful eye on it long enough to be sure it’s not a ruse; when its form starts to shift, shrinking down and changing to reveal a teenage boy, he suspects they’re safe. He looks up at the Elder still standing there, watching, and tosses the bit of wood to the side.

“Took you long enough, Alastair.”

There’s enough of a pause that a seed of doubt creeps into Grayson’s insides, but then those black-gold eyes meet his and he knows. There’s only one person he’s associated with who can look at him with such a dubious expression.

“Here I thought you might be able to handle things alone,” Alastair replies.

He knows to expect it, but the voice … the voice still catches him off guard. The deep, gravelly tones of an Elder Lycan can’t completely overwrite _Alastair’s_ accent, _Alastair’s_ speech patterns, and the dissonance it causes is truly spectacular.

There’s no real time for him to ruminate on it as Alastair is stalking away towards the entrance of the street. He stops in the deepest shadow of the nearest corner, one hand braced against the wall, and – oh.

It’s strange, seeing the transformation in reverse, bones cracking and flesh shifting into a more familiar form, hair and dark patches of skin slowly receding until it’s as though they were never there. It’s subtle, but he sees the way it leaves Alastair shaking, hears the uneven draw of his breath as he straightens up. How much do these changes take out of him?

He’s also, of course, entirely naked now, and in the course of averting his eyes Grayson’s attention catches on what Alastair’s reaching for. He can’t stop the noise of disbelief from escaping him.

“Your clothes? That’s what nearly made a meal of me?”

“Don’t blame me for your lack of focus. You should know better than anyone the dangers of distraction in battle.” His voice is muffled for a moment as he pulls his shirt over his head. “Surely you didn’t expect me to return to the hotel entirely nude?”

“Someone may have to,” Grayson muses, turning to look down at the boy still collapsed on the ground.

He lost what sense he had for judging peoples’ ages long ago – when everyone he meets is inevitably younger than him individual ages seem to lose all meaning – but the sight of the boy leaves him shaken. Naturally most look younger in sleep but it only makes things worse here; the boy’s face is slack, the beginnings of a bruise already forming in one of the places Grayson hit him, colour all the more vivid for the paleness of his skin, and as he looks closer he sees the marks on his arm, already scarred over. The bite that turned him.

Alastair stops at his elbow. “Here. Before he wakes.”

He’s holding out his pants and coat.

Grayson frowns but takes the clothing. The trousers will undoubtedly be too large on him, but better that than the looks he’s sure to encounter otherwise. Even this late, on this cold a night, he doesn’t trust his luck not to send him running face first into someone who’ll get the worst of wrong ideas.

He gets the clothes on him easily enough, then lifts the boy in both arms, trying not to think too closely on how light he is. Alastair has retreated towards the nearest wall, the only indication he feels anything of the cold in the way his arms are folded tight across his chest.

“I’ll make my own way to the hotel,” he says. “Keep an ear out; it’s unlikely I’ll be coming in through the front door.”

Grayson nods. “Take care, Alastair.”

He’s not sure what makes him say it. By the look on his face Alastair is equally perplexed, and he offers no response to the comment. Somehow Grayson can’t find it in himself to regret the words, however, a notion that’s almost stranger still. The odd moment passes without further remark from either of them, and Alastair swings himself up and onto the wall, disappearing into the dark in seconds.

The sight of him scaling the brickwork by his fingertips alone is marginally less impressive when he’s doing it in only a shirt and his underwear.

He blames the cold for the way his weariness settles in then, every ache making itself known seemingly all at once. The boy’s weight is manageable, thankfully, and he doesn’t even stir as Grayson makes his way through the streets and back towards the hotel. He can’t quite silence the irritating little voice in the back of his mind, the one questioning if perhaps he hit the child a little _too_ hard, but he can feel the soft puff of breath against his neck, fleeting warmth before it’s stolen away by the wind, and all he can do otherwise is focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

How long it takes him he doesn’t know, but eventually the hotel comes into view, the return journey entirely without incident. It’s a fact he’s grateful for, more than he can put into words, and as he makes his approach he shifts his hold on the boy, slipping one of his arms around his own shoulder and keeping him pressed tightly to his side. His bare toes skim the ground every now and then; Grayson does his best to hold him higher and hopes no one gets close enough to see his feet.

There’s someone different working the front desk, a younger man he hasn’t seen before. He perks up on seeing him approach, though it turns more towards caution than curiosity the closer Grayson gets.

“You’re … Mr Slate, aren’t you?”

“Apologies for the hour – my colleague’s nephew here found himself a little more trouble than he could handle,” Grayson lies, gesturing with his head to his companion, slowing but not stopping. “Better for all involved that I retrieve him. Our secret, yes?”

The young man blinks owlishly at him and then shrugs, turning back to whatever held his attention before Grayson. Not one to question such a boon he keeps moving, not meeting another soul between the lobby and their door. Inside, he sets the boy gently on his bed, pulls the blanket over him, and settles heavily on the chair.

Nothing left to do but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fight with the Lycan in this chapter is me gently, lovingly poking fun at the Lycan fights in the game. Come on guys, you can try something _other_ than charging at me from around a corner, I promise! It'll be fun! Just give it a shot!


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter first posted 19 March 2019.

There’s a tapping at the window.

Grayson snaps upright, sucking a sharp breath in through his nose. His neck and back quickly make their objections known, but ignoring them is easy in light of other important factors: namely, that he drifted off in the first place, and that Alastair is clinging to the outside of the building, waiting to be let in.

In one swift motion he’s up and across the room, unlatching the lock and pushing the window open. Alastair slips inside without a word, though the look he gives him says more than enough. At some point since their parting he’s found his boots, and it only adds to the strange image he presents; as he passes by Grayson can’t help but focus on the skin exposed, every inch of it covered in gooseflesh.

“There’s spare clothing in the luggage,” he says automatically, gesturing to it.

Alastair nods, descending on the bag like a starving man would a free meal, apparently uncaring of the fact that Grayson is still watching. Even after he’s finished clothing himself – boots pulled back on after making way for his trousers – it seems he’s not done, pulling the blanket from his own bed and wrapping it around his shoulders. It’s an oddly vulnerable act in Grayson’s eyes: he looks younger in that moment than he’s ever seen him, and the image is so incongruent his mind immediately rebels. How did he last as long as he did outside if this is what the cold has done to him?

And while he’s on the topic …

“It’s been nearly two hours.” He snaps his pocket watch shut. “What kept you?”

“I had reason to believe there might be something stalking us. In my state I couldn’t track them properly, though it was worth a try.”

Alastair’s voice quavers as he speaks, just enough to be noticeable, just enough to make Grayson frown.

“You damn fool.”

“Concerned for my wellbeing, Gray?” He looks amused at that, in a way meant to mock, but the fine shivers he can see wracking his body ruins the effect somewhat.

“With my investment, more like. You said you would watch my back, didn’t you? What good are you to me dead by exposure or caught unawares trying to hunt a target alone?”

Alastair raises his hands placatingly, his soft huff of laughter quickly morphing into a cough he can’t hide. Grayson gives him an intent look, meaning clear: _told you so_. The silence stretches between them as Grayson leans back against the wall, folds his arms over his chest. He watches him unabashedly, but Alastair says nothing of the scrutiny, attention solely on the boy.

“He hasn’t woken.”

“No.”

The way Alastair sounds then it could be either question or statement of fact; his own answer feels redundant but he gives it anyway. As he looks on Alastair steps closer, stopping only just out of arm’s reach. After a moment he tightens the blanket around himself, burying his hands in it.

“His bruise has faded.”

Grayson straightens up at that. Sure enough, in the time between laying him there and his own unexpected awakening whatever evidence there had been has vanished. He doesn’t realise exactly how loud his exhale had been until Alastair turns to look at him, an all too knowing expression on his face.

Grayson frowns, refuses to break eye contact. “A good sign, surely.”

Now Alastair watches him in turn. For all that he’s silent Grayson is certain there’s a comment coming, there’s no way there isn’t –

“Get some rest, Grayson.”

… Only that’s not the kind of comment he was expecting. “Sorry?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t mention that jump of yours when I returned? Please.” For a man wrapped in a blanket he manages to look surprisingly authoritative in that moment. “He could be out for hours yet. It would be a waste for both of us to be on watch.”

“You do it, then,” Grayson replies, uncaring of how stubborn he sounds. “You were the one running around half naked in the freezing cold.”

“I’m perfectly fine. Rest, while you have a chance. I’ll alert you should his condition change.”

And as though there’s nothing more to be said on the matter he settles down on the chair Grayson had previously occupied and busies himself getting comfortable.

He wishes he could say such a move surprises him, but it’s precisely the sort of thing he’s come to expect from Alastair these days. Even so, he’s left there standing in resignation for longer than he likes before he finally crosses to the bed. His pride demands him wedge his back and the pillow into the best spot against the wall, some in-between concession, rather than lie down and relax like a normal human being; by the look on his face Alastair’s all too aware of this, and expects nothing less. And maybe it’s that expression that does it, or maybe he’s just _tired_ of it all, for instead of listening to good sense he slumps down onto his side, head on the pillow, face to the wall.

How many chances has Grayson given him now to go back on his word, either by knifing him in the back or running away? Can he still count them on one hand? And yet Alastair has proven himself at every turn. Some part of him, still digging its heels in, won’t let him forget how little time has passed since they struck this bargain; some turn towards deception could still be coming. How many more times before these moments spell the end for him?

How many more times before he stops expecting them to?

It takes him far longer than he’d like to remember this is Alastair’s bed he’s occupying. Only a fool would find such a thing disturbing, and yet he has to fight to stop himself from tensing up. It’s nowhere near as comfortable as his own, what with much of the bedding currently wrapped around its owners’ shoulders. Still, it’s better than the floor. There’s only the barest hint of the other man’s scent when he breathes in, the smell of clean laundry masking all else.

He must actually be tired, as despite the twists and turnings of his thoughts he finds himself drifting into sleep. They’re mostly short, his dips into unconsciousness, and as unfulfilling as he’d known they’d be, but even if his mind doesn’t fully appreciate the rest hopefully his body will. In one of his waking moments he casts an instinctual glance over his surroundings, finding Alastair and the boy exactly as they’d been; the sight is so bizarre he almost thinks he could be dreaming. But no, this is his life now, isn’t it?

“Grayson.”

He startles, not as violently as the last time but enough to make him prickle with annoyance. He must’ve fallen into slumber again. The light touch against his shoulder brings him into waking fully; Alastair’s hand still grasps him, though his attention is on the boy.

“He’s stirring,” he says quietly.

Grayson’s sitting upright in an instant. He shifts himself towards the edge of the bed, ready to stand, when Alastair’s arm blocks his chest. The look he receives is one of warning.

“Perhaps we should avoid terrifying the child before he’s properly woken up?”

Grayson frowns, but remains where he is. So they’ll save terrifying him until _after_ , then, he thinks to himself sarcastically.

“ _Perhaps_ we should have reconsidered returning here with him,” he says instead.

“Had you or I come up with a better option, we could have.”

“There are _civilians_ here, Alastair –”

“And you’ve no guarantee he’ll transform again.” Alastair’s expression is dark, the promise of thunderous fury on the horizon. “Don’t confuse caution and overzealousness.”

The boy groans then, the noise shutting down whatever Grayson had been about to say as they both immediately turn in his direction. He comes back to consciousness slowly, reaching for his forehead with eyes still closed and movements uncoordinated, hissing as his fingers make contact. And then between one moment and the next he goes still, entire body a line so taut it seems seconds away from snapping, the breath he’s in the process of drawing catching as he holds it. Slowly, slowly, he shifts his head, one eye cracked open a fraction.

Grayson fancies he can hear the boy’s heart stop the moment he sees them. Hell, Alastair probably _does_.

He’s already raising his hands non-threateningly as the boy scrambles back, nearly tangling himself in blankets and oversized clothing both until he hits the wall behind him. His eyes are wide, chest heaving, and Grayson’s already waiting for the change to happen but Alastair – Alastair only sits there, a resolute point in contrast to the chaos of motion before them, and Grayson forces himself to relax in kind.

“We won’t hurt you,” Alastair says, his voice calm and sure.

The boy only stares at them.

“Do you know who we are?”

His eyes dart rapidly between the two of them, and Grayson can’t help but note the way they seem to avoid lingering on Alastair too long. He himself has to resist glancing over lest any of his doubt shines through. Let him take the lead on this if he so desires. Grayson can only hope he knows what he’s doing.

As though the fates themselves were waiting on such a thought the boy’s focus settles on Grayson. He seems to shrink in on himself further.

“You’re the one who hit me.”

Grayson freezes. From the corner of his eye he sees Alastair look towards him, and while he can’t be entirely sure he thinks there’s some surprise there.

He clears his throat. “Yes. Sorry about that.”

The boy says nothing in return, though now he’s eyeing him with about as much mistrust as fear. Grayson can’t exactly fault him for that.

“So, you remember our little altercation.”

Alastair cuts through the silence and once again the boy’s gaze lands on him for little more than an instant before flittering away. He can hardly even look Alastair in the eye, Grayson thinks, and if he’s made such a realisation then surely Alastair’s noticed too. He gives no indication of the fact, however: makes no comment, doesn’t shift around to try to force their eyes to meet, just sits there. A quiet, solemn presence.

One that’s still wrapped in a blanket.

The image he presents isn’t enough to undermine his bearing, the air of authority he exudes without a thought; the boy continues to shy away from them. His throat works, and then: “You … you’re the other one.”

“What makes you say that?” Grayson asks.

“Kind recognises kind,” Alastair finally says, an unreadable look on his face. “My name is Alastair. This is Grayson. We’d like to help, if we can.”

The boy frowns. “Help?”

“One such as yourself ought to never have been dragged into this life. Whoever is responsible must be found before they cause further harm.”

Fear is giving way to confusion on the boy’s face, as though he’s unsure how much is safe for him to believe; an entirely understandable position, Grayson thinks, all things considered. How willing to trust would anyone be, face to face with strangers in the middle of what must seem like a waking nightmare? The certainty behind Alastair’s words is undeniable – it’s one of the things that made him such an effective leader, and evidently what brought the boy around – but looking at the two of them now … there’s something missing.

“What’s your name, lad?” he leans forward and asks.

The boy startles, though he recovers quickly, meets him gaze for gaze. “Charles – I mean, Charlie. Charlie Jackson.”

Alastair glances his way then, something that might be approval in his expression. It comes out of nowhere in such a way that it takes him by surprise, gone before he can know with any certainty he wasn’t seeing things as Alastair turns back.

“Charlie,” he starts, and once he has his attention, asks, “were you ever told stories of monsters growing up?”

Despite its grim beginning Grayson has to admit: Alastair knows how to spin a story. Far from the dreary lecture he’s expecting, Alastair tells the history of his kind with all the gravitas a lifelong blood feud deserves, though he does his best, Grayson notes, not to sway the boy’s mind.

“The ways of this land are unknown to me,” he says at one point, “and I won’t be responsible for reigniting a war those here seem to have avoided.”

For all that it’s said to Charlie, Grayson can’t help but feel the comment is directed in part towards him. How had he worded it, what now feels like so long ago …? His kind were no more evil than Grayson’s?

Strange, that he finds he might yet believe it.

Their respective histories are kept out of the telling, for the most part, though it’s difficultly done. The more Alastair shares the more Charlie is drawn in, his curiosity plain in the way he now sits forward instead of curling away, and while the terror of the situation hasn’t fully left him what they’ve failed to realise is this: he’s still very much a teenage boy – _fifteen_ , he tells them when Alastair asks, practically an _adult_ – and the idea of Lycans and dangerous secrets is a potent counterweight. It starts out small, an interruption here or there, but as his confidence grows so do his questions. What makes the kinds of Half-Breeds different? Why do people hunt them? If humans and Half-Breeds hate each other where they’re from why are he and Grayson working together?

Alastair turns to him at that, and there’s something amused in the quirk of his mouth even as he seems to ponder the question.

“It’s a long story,” Grayson finally answers for him. “We have … an understanding, more or less.”

The Order goes unmentioned, too, more for simplicity’s sake than out of fond remembrance. Alastair must share his thought: no need to scare the boy with stories of an organisation half a world away, or with the knowledge that his two new confidants were once part of its ranks.

“You … really want to help me?”

The question comes in a gap in the conversation it’s become, the rare moment of silence broken by Charlie’s suddenly uncertain voice. He’s intently interested in his hands in that moment, laced together tightly in his lap, and Grayson almost finds himself missing that overabundant curiosity.

“If we’re able to,” he says.

“Whatever you remember about the incident could be of use.”

Charlie’s face twists unhappily, and now it seems he’s actively avoiding looking at them. “I wasn’t supposed to be outside. Not that late. Ma always said … But it sounded like it was hurt, and I thought –”

He flounders momentarily, mouth caught open, either unsure of what to say next or all too aware of how it’ll come out sounding. His opposite hand now clings tightly to the spot where the bite scar is, and Grayson wonders if he even realises it. Eventually he sighs.

“I didn’t get a good look. And after, I was just trying to keep from bleeding everywhere. I don’t know where it went.”

Alastair nods. “Go on.”

“I went home, tried to sleep. My ma saw some of it the next morning, I couldn’t stop her – I told her it was some weird old drunk that harassed me coming home.” He pauses. “I guess I didn’t want her going out looking for some … _thing_ , or getting the whole street involved.”

“Good instincts,” Grayson says. The look of appreciation he gets from Charlie in return isn’t what he’s expecting.

“That night … I woke up and everything hurt. I felt so sick, and _angry_ , and I didn’t understand why, but I – I climbed out the window, started walking. Everything after that is just … flashes.”

His grip on his arm has turned white knuckled, and Grayson can see the shaking that’s already threatening to overcome him. The fear is back on his face, clear as day, latched on firmly for all that the distractions of earlier had seemed to bury it. Even as within his own mind an alarm is sounding, certain that a violent transformation is about to descend, Grayson finds his thoughts centring elsewhere instead. In the wake of a Lycan’s carnage he’s only ever had eyes for the cowering and terrified civilians, some injured, others worse; the Half-Breed would be dead by then, a welcome sight. It had sickened him, how some would leer and grin at him before embracing the chaos their change evoked, but others … others he cut down with nary a glimpse at their human selves.

How many had been like this young man? Frightened and unaware of what was happening to them, of what they were doing?

He hasn’t questioned the nature of the Lycans and their morality since his earliest days as a knight-in-training. To find himself in such a state again, after so long …

“Breathe, Charlie. Slowly,” Alastair is saying. His voice helps pull Grayson back into the moment.

Charlie shudders, but does so, and even though he looks like he wants to crawl into the deepest pit known to man and never come out again eventually his breathing slows, and his shaking subsides. He hunches over himself miserably, scrubbing both hands over his face and then burying his fingers in his hair, leaving himself hidden. Alastair finally looks over at him and they share a glance but nothing else, letting the boy have his moment in silence.

When he speaks again, moving his hands away just enough to be heard, his voice comes out soft and more than a little wrecked. “Will I ever see my family again?”

“I can’t imagine why you couldn’t.”

The swift directness of Alastair’s response is enough to make Charlie’s head snap up, and he stares at him, clearly confused.

“The heart of your problem is lack of control. All newly made Half-Breeds experience this. If you can learn to tame these foreign impulses I don’t see why you couldn’t return to your former life.”

“And you can teach me?”

Charlie looks so cautiously hopeful it seems to take years off his already young face. It only makes the answer Grayson knows is coming more disheartening.

“Grayson and I have obligations elsewhere – we can’t stay,” Alastair says, clearly trying to ignore how the boy’s shoulders fall. “Which is why it’s imperative we find the one responsible for this. If there’s one Lycan in a city, odds are there are more; if that’s the case you might find they’re willing to educate you.”

There are an awful lot of ‘ifs’ in that sentence, Grayson thinks to himself. By the look on his face Charlie shares his scepticism. “And if that doesn’t work?”

“We’ll find something that does.”

Alastair’s confidence doesn’t shine as brightly this time around, though that doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe it. Charlie is obviously downtrodden about it all, arms wrapped closely around his chest and his gaze unfocused, lost somewhere around the direction of their shoes. His prior enthusiasm seems especially far away now, almost as though it’d only been a fantasy of theirs, and if Grayson is starting to get a headache from all this emotional back and forth he can only imagine how the poor boy must feel.

“You can trust Alastair’s word. He knows the ways of this better than anyone I’ve met.”

Charlie only nods, still glum, but it’s Alastair’s reaction that holds more interest: he turns to look at him, only a few seconds though it feels infinitely longer, and the expression on his face is one so densely layered it’s all but impossible to decipher.

“It’s likely for the best that you remain here until we’ve sorted this,” Alastair is saying to Charlie even before he’s finished turning around. “We’ll see about getting you more suitable clothes and a meal once the sun is fully up; in the meantime, you should rest. A word, Grayson?”

He’s out of his chair and moving towards the door before Grayson even hears his summons, and with a somewhat awkward nod to Charlie he follows him out into the hall.

The atmosphere is appropriately moody; the sconces cast a warm light, but spread as they are the glow falls off quickly, hungrily absorbed by the dark wood. Alastair is leaning with his back against the wall just a few steps away, arms folded over his chest. Even with the shadows as deep as they are he doesn’t quite disappear the way he might like to, and the play of light and dark does interesting things to the grim lines of his face.

“What’s the matter?” he asks when Alastair continues to stare off into nothingness.

“I’m not in the habit of dealing with children. Or giving them false hope.”

“It’s not false hope if we don’t fail.”

Alastair chuckles at that, shakes his head. “Such optimism. Were it only that simple.”

“Explain the difficulty, then.”

“Let’s imagine there _are_ Half-Breeds here in the city other than the one than turned him. Can you not see the tension it might cause should an Elder Lycan from another country stroll up and start asking questions?” Alastair turns his head to look at him. “Now imagine that one of the resident Half-Breeds is an Elder themselves, and responsible for the others in their region. Violent disputes over territory are not a uniquely human invention, let me assure you.”

Slowly, Grayson says, “There’s certainly a large number of variables to consider …”

“And therein lies the other problem. I can’t be what he needs, Grayson. And if there’s no one else here for him …” He turns his gaze back to the darkness of the room, thumping the back of his head against the wall. “If that’s the case he’d be better off with a bullet.”

“Then let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

His voice sounds odd to his own ears, steady with a conviction he’s not entirely sure belongs to him. Perhaps it’s some of Alastair’s that he’s absorbed through proximity, returning now that its rightful owner is seemingly at a deficit. Not that he needs coddling, or any kind of soft-hearted treatment – he’s a grown man, and can get over his crisis of confidence by himself – but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s already uttered the words. And now Alastair is watching him again, brow creased deeply by a frown.

“You’re just as bad,” he says, voice soft, “lying to a child in such a fashion. Telling him he can trust my word? Where did this faith in me come from?”

Grayson doesn’t respond right away, a handful of potential replies warring in his mind. In the end he settles on the most impassive face possible and says, “Perhaps all those blows to the head over the years are catching up to me.”

Alastair only stares at him at first, long enough that Grayson starts to thinks he should’ve pared back the dryness of his tone. But eventually he scoffs, looking closer to perplexed than horribly offended; before either of them can change their minds, Grayson goes on, voice as serious as he can make it:

“You asked me to trust you, or don’t you remember? Why wouldn’t I tell him such a thing?”

At that Alastair’s expression sobers, and quickly, too. He’s silent as he looks away and it’s clear Grayson’s going to get nothing else out of him for the time being, as deep in thought as he is, and so he leaves him to it. There are details and courses of action still to be discussed, but they can wait for a little while yet.

With the night they’ve all had even just a moment of respite would go a long way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for all the ways media can be promoted, seeing if any of it has any bearing on the final product or any use for my own purposes. Among others The Order had an [Alternate Reality Game](http://theorderexposed.tumblr.com/), a [moustache comb](https://i.imgur.com/CxGsZ5Y.jpg), this [gnarly poster](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/B8lu8HKCQAAZ75M.png) (which I wish I owned a copy of to stick on my wall goddamn), and the [Little Bobby Paige trailer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BgsRiFNF27A). That trailer was absolutely an inspiration for this particular subplot.


End file.
